


Adorned

by jolach



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Childcare, Fisting, Germany!, Jokes About Soccer, M/M, Needles, Not famous AU (partially), Piercings, Plants that are Metaphors, Rough Sex, Soccer, The Horrors of One's Late Twenties, Under-negotiated Kink, family trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 07:25:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 52,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16013114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolach/pseuds/jolach
Summary: This is an AU about a dick piercing.





	Adorned

**Author's Note:**

> Things I would not describe this story as: action-packed, tightly-plotted. Things I would: absurd, important to me.
> 
> Warnings for occasional casual use of ableist terms and some minor discussion of weight gain/loss, as well as recurring themes around medical history and ableism. If you've got a needle phobia, this may not be the fic for you.
> 
> None of this is real.

Nicke’s last client of the night doesn’t entirely seem to know what he wants. He brought a friend, though. That’s good. People are way more likely to walk out with nothing if they show up alone.

They’re both tall, well-built in a way that stands out. Nicke’s in better shape than most of the people he knows—the comfort of a decade-long workout habit will do that—but these guys have the dense muscles and rolling gaits that come with going through 4,000 calories a day. Nicke can’t afford 4,000 calories a day.

The slightly squirrely one is his guy, so Nicke motions him up onto the sterile cushioned bench and nods his friend toward the chair in the corner.

“Guten tag,” his client says, fingers flexing on the paper covering of his seat. His accent is awful, but he doesn’t seem worried about it.

“Hallo,” Nicke replies, sitting back in his office chair and rolling closer. He makes a guess and switches languages. “English better?”

His client smiles, broad and relieved. The fluorescent overhead lights make his teeth look extra white, and his hair a little bit red. “Yes, thank you. Need a few more days for German.”

Nicke nods. “I’m not German either. Swedish.”

“Russian.”

“Mm. Farther from home than me.” The guy shrugs. Nicke knows the feeling. “I’m Nicke. What are we doing today?”

“Evgeny,” he says, bouncing his leg. “And something in the ear.”

Makes sense. Seems nervous. Has tattoos, but no piercings that Nicke can see. Would be a bit much to jump straight to snakebites, though Nicke has seen it before. “OK. What kind of thing in the ear? And before you ask,” Nicke says, because they always ask, “All of them are the gay one, so get over that now.”

That shocks a small laugh out of Evgeny, and a bigger one out of his friend in the corner.

“What you think?” Evgeny says, tilting his head back and forth. Nicke was surprised the first few times someone came in with more of a general impulse than a clear plan, but he’s used to it by now. Sometimes you just need a stranger’s opinion.

He thinks for a moment. “You play sports?” he says, looking between the two of them. Evgeny nods, and his friend laughs again.

“How you tell?” he says, and when Nicke glances back behind him he sees he’s joking, a tiny edge to his grin. _Yes, I noticed you are hot, well done_ , Nicke thinks at him, but saves his eyeroll for later.

“If you are playing a contact sport, I would say no cartilage piercing for now,” Nicke says, outlining the cartilage on his own left ear with his finger in case Evgeny doesn’t know the word. “Looks cool, right, but takes at least six months to heal, and will hurt a lot if it gets hit.” Based on his friend’s missing tooth, they’re not playing table tennis. Between that and the Russian accents, Nicke has a guess.

Evgeny nods and bounces some more. “OK, yes. So then just the...” he trails off and gestures.

“Just the lobe,” Nicke finishes, already rolling his chair back to his station to find the right gauge needle.

“You sure you know?” Corner Guy pipes up again, and Nicke can tell without turning around now that he’s messing with him, but still. “Don’t see any on you.”

Nicke spins the chair around, face blank. He tucks his hair behind his ear and pulls his hat out of the way so they both can see the daith and industrial in his right ear. He’d be as good at what he does without them, or the others, but he does know whereof he fucking speaks.

“Cool,” Evgeny says, drawing the word out and leaning over to get a better look. “Next time maybe,” he shrugs when Nicke looks at him.

Nicke turns back to Corner Guy. “And you?” He should leave him alone and get on with it, but he can’t help himself.

Corner Guy raises an eyebrow and smiles again. “Nowhere you can see,” he says, and lets his legs spread out a little—as much as they can in the tiny chair. That only means one thing.

Evgeny unleashes a flood of Russian, sounding impressed and appalled, and Nicke just laughs. Fair enough. He seems the type. Nicke immediately renames him to Prince Albert in his head.

The rest of the appointment is routine, easy. Prince Albert is quiet and doesn’t protest when Nicke angles Evgeny so he can’t see what’s going on—he’s had too many appointments go sideways when somebody’s moral support passed out at the sight of the needle. Evgeny handles it with nothing more than a wince, and from the way he’s grinning as he heads out, he’ll be back for more hardware within a few weeks. Nicke knows.

“Make sure he does the aftercare,” Nicke says to Prince Albert as he walks out. “Not so bad as it would have been for you, there, but still. He gets an infection, maybe isn’t such a good customer for me.”

Prince Albert hasn’t wiped the smile off his face the whole time. Weird guy. “Don’t worry,” he says. “He’ll be back.”

  


* * *

  


One of them comes back. It isn’t Evgeny.

Less than a week later, Prince Albert has returned to his corner, this time with a man who is, somehow, even larger. If Nicke becomes the pet piercer of Köln’s expat athlete community, he’s going to need to swap with Kerstin for the bigger room. Today’s guy is named Tom, and Nicke honestly thinks he might need a larger gauge needle for whatever he wants.

Tom is also stupidly handsome, but in a way that’s so symmetrical Nicke’s eyes kind of slide right off him. Some jewelry might actually help with that.

Nicke gives him the same advice he gives Evgeny, but Tom is unmoved. “Cartilage or nothing, man,” he says.

“You get hit, it hurt like shit,” Prince Albert pipes up from the corner.

Tom gives him a look. “This whole thing was your idea, dude.”

“Hey, I am support.”

“He’s not wrong,” Nicke says. It hurts like a motherfucker. He loves his industrial, and he also once made himself cry by picking up the phone too enthusiastically a month after he got it.

Tom shrugs. “It already hurts like shit, might as well be for something I picked,” he says, which is fucking nonsense and wins Nicke over completely.

He makes Tom show him a picture of the helmets they wear to remind him what they cover—he had guessed right about how these guys make their money—and he suggests a rook piercing. If he can’t change Tom’s mind, he can at least give him something a little less likely to get irritated than a piercing on the shell of the ear.

Nicke has Tom lie down on the bench, facing away from him, as he cleans and marks the site. Tom seems pretty calm, but he’s had calm dudes knee him in the balls before when the needle actually goes in. Tom looks strong. Nicke wants kids.

“You want your friend to come over?” Nicke asks when it’s almost time.

“Yeah, you wanna come hold my hand?” Tom calls to Prince Albert, flapping an arm out.

“Ah, Tom, I think you are never going to ask,” Prince Albert says, unfolding himself from his chair.

Nicke has him stand down by Tom’s feet and angles himself so Prince Albert still can’t see the needle when it goes in, decisive and perfect. That’s between him and Tom. He can feel the guy standing back there, though, presence heavy and unmoving, and when he glances back he can see Tom squeezing his hand like a vise. Prince Albert doesn’t complain.

Tom doesn’t have Evgeny’s euphoria, but he seems pleased with himself. Nicke has to remind him about six times not to touch the barbell so much.

“And try not to sleep on that side,” Nicke says, passing off the standard aftercare instructions. “Make a pillow wall in your bed. You will thank me.”

“Say thank you to nice man, Tom,” Prince Albert says, following him out of the room.

“Thank you,” Tom croons on his way out the door, and Nicke just shakes his head and closes the door behind them both. He’s glad Andre is working reception tonight. Nicke’s not interested in getting Tom’s number, but somebody ought to.

  


* * *

  


Nicke sees a lot of people in his little room. He only works afternoons and evenings, scheduling around his morning shifts with the kids, but it’s amazing how many people in Köln decide every day that _this_  is the day they need to get their nose pierced.

He loves it.

Some people are shit, obviously. Usually parents who are looking for an excuse to drag their baby out of there sans belly button piercing. That’s fine. Nicke knows how to deal with that.

Mostly, though, Nicke has a much easier time with the people in his room than people outside of it. Even people he suspects would be bastards in other circumstances tend to leave it at the door. They need something. They might not be able to explain to anybody else why they need it, but they don’t have to explain it to him. They just have to trust him to give it to them.

Sebastian’s isn’t the best shop he’s worked at, but it’s far from the worst. They pay on time. He has everything he needs to keep his shit organized and sterile. Nobody’s ever stolen anything from his kit. He gets to add his own little touches to the room—he can tell that makes the clients feel better.

A lot of other artists will post pictures of their work on the walls, which he figures makes sense for the tattoo artists down the hall. He tends to get more first- or second-timers than old hands, though, and he suspects a wall full of close-ups of nipples would probably backfire on him. Instead, he’s pulled a few pieces of memorabilia out of never-unpacked suitcase in his flat that tend to put people at ease.

The Arsenal scarf is a no brainer. Anybody who gives a shit about football can use that as a conversation starter, even if it’s just to rag on him about how Özil is doing. He doesn’t mind at this point. He hears it probably three times a day.

After last season, he also added a team picture of him with the kids. That helps the parents, seeing that the guy in the black t-shirt with the big needle has a wholesome side. He’s seen way worse injuries on the football pitch than he’s ever had in his room, but they don’t need to know that.

The rainbow sticker above the sink rounds it out. There’s another one in the shop window, and it’s not like anyone in Köln of all places should be shocked. But it still feels useful for Nicke to make things unambiguous. Efficient. You’re in a closed room in a basement body mod shop with a tall man in rubber gloves. You should know you’re among friends without having to ask.

Nicke has given hundreds of people piercings at Sebastian’s, and hundreds more at other shops before that. They leave his room, happy, and he gets to forget about them forever, sparing his handful of regulars and the rare customer who recognizes him at a nearby bar after a shift. He gives them back to the world, slightly improved, and they never have to think about each other again.

  


* * *

  


Nicke is halfway through his Friday night shift when the phone in his room buzzes. When he picks it up, Andre speaks to him in Swedish, which is unusual—normally he sticks to German so the customers can understand him.

“Your beefcake delivery is here,” Andre drawls. Nicke hopes he doesn’t have his feet up on the desk again. “The big salt-and-pepper one, with the dick piercing, and a new guy.” Nicke needs to stop telling Andre things. “New guy has a _very_  nice beard. Do you think they would join my Frisbee team?

“I’ll be sure to ask them.”

“Dick. Where are you posting on Craigslist to find these? If you’re shooting porn back there you _will_  get caught, it never works for long.”

“Trade secrets,” Nicke says. He’s curious about where they’re coming from, too, aside from the general notion of hockey, but he has steadfastly refused to google any of them.

“Well, they asked for you,” Andre says, and Nicke twists his mouth to avoid smiling. “They wanted someone who speaks English.”

“OK, give me five minutes and then send them back,” Nicke says. His last customer left only a few minutes ago—he’s got his routine down, but it still takes a bit to get everything sterile again.

“Will do,” Andre says. “Also, you should know one of them called you Hamlet, so I’m not the only one who thinks you should—oh, shit, they definitely understood that, whoops, hanging up,” and then the phone goes dead.

The new guy—Braden, he introduces himself—really does have a very nice beard.

“For what it’s worth,” Nicke says, returning to his chair, “Hamlet is Danish. I’m Swedish.” He keeps his tone light but aims a look at Prince Albert, who has the decency to look a tiny bit sheepish.

“You do wear black very much,” he points out, which is rich coming from a guy who has had on the same pair of basketball shorts every time Nicke has seen him. They work for him, but still. “And you stab,” he adds, making a tiny thrusting gesture.

Nicke makes an assenting noise and pulls on his gloves. “Hamlet is a prince, right?”

Braden nods. “Yeah, Prince of Denmark. Why?”

Nicke bites his tongue. “No reason, just interesting.” God help him, he’s going to tell Andre all about this. “So, Braden. What are we doing today?”

Braden is taller than Nicke, with the eyes of a cartoon deer and the beard of a cartoon lumberjack. Nothing about him says “tongue piercing,” but who is Nicke to say.

Andre’s going to lose his mind.

“I got one as a teenager,” Braden explains, clearly able to see whatever microexpression Nicke wasn’t able to control. “My parents made me get rid of it, but hell.” He throws up his hands. “It’s been ten years, why not.”

“Also now Tom thinks he is cooler than him,” Prince Albert says, looking immensely pleased about it.

Braden scowls.

Nicke will have to be extra careful and make sure there’s no scarring that will get in the way of a new piercing, but it’s nothing he hasn’t done before. “Less likely to get hit than ears or face,” he muses. “Let’s do it.”

Prince Albert claps his hands gleefully in the corner. “Good present for Brandi, eh?” Braden turns several different colors in succession.

Nicke shrugs. “Depends on the person, but yes, usually fun.” He raises an eyebrow at Prince Albert. “Given your situation, you might want to be careful.”

Then it is Prince Albert’s turn to turn several colors. Nicke grins, but turns back to Braden before he sees them all.

“How long are you in Cologne?”

Braden does some quick mental math. “Five or six more weeks.”

Nicke hums. “OK. It’s important to come back before you leave, after about four weeks. Should be healed by then, and I’ll change out the jewelry for something a little smaller. Better for your teeth.” Braden nods. “Is Brandi here or somewhere else?”

He blushes again. It’s cute. “She’s back in the States.”

“OK, that’s good,” Nicke says. “Better to not exchange fluids with anybody until it is healed. Even kissing is not great.”

“I’ll try to restrain myself,” Braden says, serious set of his eyebrows only barely undercut by the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Nicke likes him.

Braden is patient, listening attentively as Nicke walks through the aftercare instructions, what not to eat for the first few days, what to expect in the way of swelling. He gives Nicke a thumbs up when he uses a hand mirror to show him where the piercing will go.

Nicke walks back to his kit to start getting a 12 gauge needle ready and laying the jewelry out on a tray. “I will hold your tongue, so don’t worry about messing anything up by moving. I won’t let you.”

“That’s comforting.”

Everything’s ready. “OK. You should close your eyes now and stick out your tongue,” Nicke says before he turns around. Braden has obeyed, sitting at the edge of the platform with his eyes shut and his tongue stuck out like a distracted cat.

“Looking good,” Prince Albert says from the corner.

“Be nice,” Nicke says mildly. He lays the tray next to Braden and steps up into his space. He taps the inside of one of Braden’s knees lightly with the back of his hand. Braden shifts his legs open a little wider to make room, and Nicke steps in closer.

A sudden impulse strikes him, and he follows it before he thinks about it too hard. “Is it OK if he sees?” he murmurs to Braden, and Braden nods. “You want to come closer?” he says, louder this time. He doesn’t turn around, but he can hear Prince Albert’s chair scrape and feels him cross the room in two steps.

He expects Prince Albert to make some sort of joke, but he doesn’t—just shifts so he’s leaning against the wall to Nicke’s left. Nicke doesn’t look at him.

He can tell where Braden’s piercing used to be from a tiny bit of scar tissue, but it won’t get in the way. The original placement was a bit too far forward anyway—Braden’s better off with somebody who knows what they’re doing.

He tips Braden’s head back a little to get better light, hand under his chin, then grasps his tongue between his left thumb and index finger, a little further back from where the piercing will be. He used to use forceps for this, but found his hands were better for holding steady without pinching down too hard. Faster feedback this way.

The tension shows in Braden’s shoulders, but he’s doing best to relax and trust Nicke, his face calm and his eyes closed. Good.

All that lead-up, and the point of it is over in seconds.

Needle through swiftly with just a hint of resistance—post through the hollow needle—barbells screwed onto either side of the post. Braden makes a surprised noise, but by the time he knows to flinch it’s already done.

Nicke lays the needle down on the tray and steps back, suffused with pleasure. It looks good.

“OK, open your eyes,” he says. “How do you feel?”

Braden blinks his eyes open owlishly. “Ih hurts, buh noh too bad,” he says. “Oh, fuh.”

Nicke smiles. “It will take a day or two, but by the end of the week you should be talking normal again.” He hands him the hand mirror so he can check himself out.

He glances over at Prince Albert, assuming some friendly mockery is coming

Prince Albert isn’t looking at Braden.

He’s looking at Nicke.

  


* * *

  


Nicke answers Braden’s last questions as efficiently as possible without jeopardizing a decent tip. Whatever these guys are in Köln for, it pays.

“Come back in four weeks,” he says, holding the door open.

“Thee you thoon,” Braden says, heading back towards reception, Prince Albert close on his heels.

“You stay,” Nicke says lightly, and Prince Albert freezes before turning in place to face him.

Nicke hadn’t been a hundred percent sure, but the look on the guy’s face confirms it. It’s not a bad look. It’s just an obvious one.

“What’s your name?” Nicke asks.

He puts both his hands in his pockets, but he stands up straight. “Sasha,” he says. Softer than Nicke was expecting.

“Sasha,” Nicke repeats. “OK, Sasha.” Nicke puts his hands in his own pockets. He still has his gloves on. “I’m not sure if you maybe have a needle fetish or what, wouldn’t be the first—” and Sasha is half-blanching, half-laughing, “—but if you want to see me somewhere besides my workplace, just ask next time, yeah? Not that I don’t appreciate the extra business.”

Sasha hasn’t moved, but he’s smiling, so Nicke figures he wasn’t entirely off the mark. “OK,” Sasha says after a moment, nodding.

OK.

“OK,” Nicke says, and ducks back into his room. He pulls the door shut behind him, firmly.

There. It’s done.

Prince Albert—Corner Guy—Sasha—has been called on his shit, which will probably put an end to it. He seems like an interesting enough guy, but Nicke doesn’t need weird tension invading his appointments. Now that tension will stop, one way or another. Any way will suit Nicke just fine.

Nicke shakes his head a little, clearing the fuzz from his brain, and grabs the tray from the bench to start sterilizing the needle. It’s Friday night, which probably means another half dozen appointments before close.

He’s barely gotten started when someone knocks on his door. He frowns—he thought the phone intercom system was fixed.

“Andre, we can talk after—” he starts, opening the door. It isn’t Andre.

“I am thinking,” Sasha says, bouncing on the balls of his feet, filling up Nicke’s doorway entirely, “maybe I just ask you this time.”

  


* * *

  


Nicke has a shift to finish, so Sasha had added him on Whatsapp, the notification coming in amongst a stream of messages from Andre demanding to know what was happening.

“I am very good at texting, you will see,” Sasha had promised, or possibly threatened, as Nicke shooed him out of the hallway and back toward reception.

Nicke had had about fifteen minutes to catch his breath and reset his room before the first non-Andre message came in.

_when your shift is over ??_

Christ. Nicke had assumed he’d have a day or two to brace himself. Or cancel. But he can’t actually think of a reason to beg off.

 _shop closes at 2300, im out by 2330,_ he sends back. Two seconds after he puts his phone down, it’s buzzing again.

 _see you 2330 ))))))))_. What the fuck is this guy so excited about? This is a terrible idea.

_yes. now be quiet. i am working._

He waits for another buzz. None comes.

  


* * *

  


Nicke steadfastly refuses every single one of Andre’s questions and sends him home a little early, offering to close and lock up himself. That raises Andre’s suspicions, but not enough to get him to skip a chance to duck out, so when Sasha comes back, Nicke is alone.

Sometimes the places where Nicke does his work feel like little sealed-off pockets. Things happen in there that don’t happen anywhere else. He knows things can feel more heightened. Urgent. Nicke had thought that maybe, outside of his cramped little room, Sasha’s presence would strike him differently. It does not.

There are plenty of bars open this time on a Friday in Köln’s nightlife district, and Sasha seems to have been shamelessly Yelping, but Nicke can’t handle any more variables tonight. The usual place around the corner will do. The chance that Nicke will run into someone he knows is worth eliminating any more possible surprises.

They hover until a table frees up, squeezed in a corner that knocks their knees together, and Sasha takes Nicke’s recommendation from the beers on draft. It’s nothing he hasn’t done a dozen times with people from Sebastian’s, dragged out by Andre or nursing a blessedly silent drink with Kerstin after a rough shift.

It might be easier if he knew who the hell this person was.

“So, solve the mystery for me,” he says, taking a long sip. “What are all you tall foreigners doing in Köln?”

Sasha gives him a look. “You are tall foreigner too.”

Nicke shrugs. “Not that tall for Germans.” It’s true. He’s a bit blonder than average, but mostly he blends right in. This had been a little bit annoying when he first arrived. Nicke gets flustered being asked for directions in Gävle, much less in a city and language he hadn’t known well at the time.

Sasha seems to accept this. “There is a trainer here. One of my teammates is German, has been going to him for summers for years. Seems to work, so many of us have come this year.” He smiles. “Getting old, need to work harder. Or that’s what everybody tell me.”

Nicke isn’t entirely sure how old Sasha is. He suspects the gray hair is misleading. “Hockey team?” he checks.

“What give me away,” Sasha says, grinning even wider to show off his missing tooth. Nicke nods and twists away a smile. He can tell Sasha wants him to ask more about his team. Nicke doesn’t intend to give him the satisfaction.

“My father played hockey,” Nicke admits. “I know the type.”

Sasha makes a face and sips his beer. “I am like your papa?” he says, grimacing. “Not sure how I feel about that—” and he ducks effortlessly under the balled-up napkin Nicke pegs at his head, laughing.

“Ass,” Nicke says. God. Sasha and his father. The mind boggles. “No. You do not remind me of my father.” Sasha looks entirely too pleased at that. “My father would never wear that shirt.”

  


* * *

  


Nicke expects Sasha to make an excuse to take him home, but instead he extracts a promise from Nicke to see him again on Sunday.

“I have no one else here but the team,” Sasha had wheedled, elbow on the table and chin in his hand. It’s almost enough to distract from the size of him, the way his body curves around the table. “They know nothing, they are no good, you can’t leave me with them.”

Nicke had raised his eyebrows. “You haven’t made any other new friends?” Sasha had shaken his head. “No? I am surprised. You are not having drinks with the cashier at the market?” A giggle. “You are not pestering your hotel concierge like this?”

The low light of last call had picked out every one of Sasha’s grey hairs, the crinkles by his eyes. “No,” he had said, warmly.

The trams are still running, and Nicke gets his usual one home, a window seat toward the back. Nicke’s past the point in his life where being out past 2 AM holds any real appeal, but there’s a certain pleasure in seeing the late-night city go by from behind glass.

Nicke can remember what it was like to wait anxiously for it to get late enough that it felt like the rules went away. To throw his body at a wall, the floor, other bodies under the cover of darkness and ride that wild relief for as long as it lasted. It used to help. He doesn’t remember when it stopped.

Nicke’s not nineteen anymore. He’s more surprised by the things that haven’t changed than the things that have.

  


* * *

  


Saturdays are always full mornings with the kids, and Nicke is content to run himself ragged up and down the pitch shouting reminders in his broken German to not bunch up around the ball so much, Lukas, remember your position!

One of the ten-year-olds, Tomas, has an asthma attack just before they break for the day, dropping to his hands and knees by the corner flag after defending a free kick. His teammates converge on him, but Nicke heads to the sideline and finds Tomas’s backpack. The inhaler is in the top pocket, scuffed up and adorned with a Darth Vader sticker.

He squats by Tomas, nudging his friends out of the way, and hands it over. This attack doesn’t seem any worse than the other ones Tomas has had this summer, but they’re coming more frequently in the past few weeks.

“You hear a whistle?” he says to the cluster of kids that have gathered around. “You have time to stand around, you have time to run another drill.” They drag their feet, grumbling a little, but they go.

Tomas is breathing better now. Good. When the rest of the kids are out of earshot, Nicke meets his eyes. “Stop being stupid.”

Tomas’s eyes widen, then get angry. Good. “I’m not being stupid! I can’t help I have asthma.”

“Obviously,” Nicke says. “You’re the expert. You know when you’re about to have an attack.” He pauses and raises his eyebrows when Tomas doesn’t deny it. “Ask for your inhaler first next time. I can hold onto it if you want so you don’t have to go far.”

Tomas colors a little. “I don’t like having to stop the game.”

Nicke shrugs. “Yeah. But this is worse.” Tomas seems unconvinced. “Think. You keep having attacks every other practice, you think your parents will want you to keep playing?”

That seems to register. Tomas gets back to his feet, a little wobbly. He nods. “OK.”

Nicke reaches out and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Good. I can’t lose you, none of these other kids know how to slide tackle for shit.”

  


* * *

  


Nicke had never particularly liked kids. Or—no, that’s not true. He had always thought kids were fun, but he’d never thought he had any special talent with them. He just tries to remember what he wanted as a kid, which mostly was for people to tell him the truth.

One time Nicke had, maybe slightly drunkenly, theorized on the phone with Kristoffer that it was actually kids who had a talent with him.

“They just listen to what I am saying. Then they tell me what they want. They need to pee, they say they need to pee, I tell them to go pee,” Nicke had said, flopped on his back on a futon. “I can do that. Way easier.”

Kristoffer had called him an infant and asked him, as is tradition, when he was going to get a real job. Nicke thinks the point still stands.

Nicke likes his not-real jobs. He has bosses, but they stay out of his face. He doesn’t have to learn how to tie a tie. He doesn’t have to pretend. And he can always leave.

Every city has people who need holes put in them. Every country has kids who need to be worn out. Nicke’s been wearing out his passport for years and he’s never been totally jobless in a new city for more than two weeks.

He’s been in Köln for nearly a year and a half now. It’s been a good fit. Germany in general has been easy for Nicke. The language gets kind of mushed up with Swedish and English in his head, but even when his sentences are all three at once people usually can figure out what he means. The public transportation is simple. The healthcare is just as good as Sweden. And nobody makes him talk about anything.

Coming home after a Saturday morning means a shower, a late lunch, and a blood pressure check. It’s normal, just like it always is, but it makes him feel better to have it in his back pocket for the next time his mother decides to call.

Neither of his roommates seem to be home, which is a relief, so Nicke takes a moment to sit at the kitchen table in his towel and eat a sandwich in peace. It’s sunny out. The windows are open. The rent is paid. Bliss.

His phone buzzes.

Sasha, and presumably some of his large adult friends, must have visited the Köln cathedral this morning. Sasha has sent him a selfie from in front of it, taken from an impressively unflattering angle to get the full height of the cathedral in the picture.

_this church is 2 big !!! haha i like it )))))))))_

It is a very big church. Nicke can’t fault him there.

He sighs and puts down the phone. He takes another bite of his sandwich. He puts down the sandwich and picks up the phone again, shaking his head.

_does 1900 work for tomorrow night?_

He doesn’t bother picking the sandwich back up.

_yes )))))_

Nicke copies the address for the park and sends it to him. He’d had the idea on the tram the night before. It’s a very low-key idea.

Sasha responds with a mix of emojis Nicke doesn’t have the wherewithal to decipher.

  


* * *

  


There are a lot of parks in Köln. There are a lot of beer gardens. This one isn’t special.

The birch trees are tall. There are lights strung from tree to tree. A woman with a guitar is singing jazz standards at the open mic. This is typical.

It is conveniently located.

Sasha seems to think it is special. Sasha is taking a thousand pictures for his Instagram. Nicke has to herd Sasha somewhat seriously into the line for food to make sure that they actually eat.

There are enough seats for fifty, maybe sixty people scattered across the park. They find a small table with two chairs—it’s a little rickety, rocking back and forth as they eat, but it’s close enough to hear the music, so Nicke will take it.

“I ate at places like this all the time when I first got here,” he says, dipping some fries in the gravy that came with his sausage.

“French fries, very reliable,” Sasha muses.

Nicke hums. “That’s true. And cheap. And there aren’t many options there, so before I had any German I could just...” he mimes pointing mutely at food behind glass, which makes Sasha smile. “And nobody cares if you eat by yourself. Just sit, watch people.”

Sasha considers this for a moment. “You just sit? Nobody sits with you?”

Nicke shakes his head. “You don’t like eating alone?”

Sasha shrugs. “I eat alone, I eat with company, it’s fine. I am just thinking...” he trails off, then gives Nicke a sly look. “Germans are stupid, I guess.”

Ah. “Maybe I like eating alone,” he says, fixing Sasha with a look. “Somebody comes over, maybe I say, go fuck yourself, I’m trying to eat wurst over here.”

“Even if it’s me who comes over?” Sasha asks. He stretches showily in his chair, grinning.

“Even if it’s you,” Nicke says, eating another french fry. He gives Sasha a generous once-over that makes him laugh. “You come back two more times, who knows, maybe then I get tired, give up.”

Summer nights slide long and slow into darkness, one round of Kolsches turning into two and then three. The shadows of the trees get longer and longer and then disappear. The light gets warmer, then lower, until the streetlamps around the park blink on one by one. It’s a nice night; the park is still busy. Nobody wants to go home.

“How long have you been in the US?” Nicke asks, leaning back in his chair and fiddling with his hat.

Sasha takes a second. “Ten years, now.” He huffs a surprised noise. “Long time.”

“No kidding,” Nicke says. He can’t imagine staying still for that long. “Must feel like home by now.”

“Eh,” Sasha says, also leaning back. “Moscow is home. I like it there, though. Second-best home. Feels like less than ten years. And more.” He finishes his Kolsch. Nicke tries to remember exactly what change he has left in his pockets—he thinks he can swing another round. They’ve been drinking slow—he barely feels tipsy. “And you. Where feels like home for Nicky? Sweden?”

Nicky. Jesus. Maybe he shouldn’t get another round—he can feel himself coloring. “Sweden will be home, eventually,” he nods. “Stockholm, maybe.” That feels livable.

Sasha narrows his eyes. “Will be. Is not?”

Nicke ignores him and fishes in his pocket, piling the coins on the table. “I am getting another beer, do you want one?” He’s got the Euros, thank God.

“When will you let me buy?” Sasha whines, reaching across the table and covering up Nicke’s pile of coins with one massive hand. “Is stupid, I ask you to come.”

“I picked the place, and I speak more German than you,” Nicke says. “You will come back with ice cream.”

“I can just...” Sasha says, repeating Nicke’s pointing gesture from before. “And ice cream is good, what’s problem?” He stands up, pushing Nicke’s Euros back across the table. “I buy drinks, then you tell me Sweden story.” He winks at Nicke and then walks over to the food stand.

Nicke watches him go. “I don’t want...either of those things,” he calls after him quietly.

He can’t help but keep an eye on Sasha as he fumbles confidently through the ordering process. Sasha may say he’s not asking out every person he comes into contact with, but Nicke’s pretty sure he’s smiling more at the cashier than Nicke has at anybody in his life.

It’s a good smile. Sasha is not too symmetrical. He is easy to look at.

He is also clearly aware that Nicke is looking at him. Two winks in two minutes should send a man to jail.

Miracle of miracles, he brings back two beers. “You will see. Always good to believe in Ovi.”

Nicke makes a noncommittal noise as he takes a glass carefully, condensation cool on his fingers. “Ovi is you?”

Sasha laughs a little as he sits back down, big body perched on the tiny chair. “Yes, from last name. Ovechkin.”

“Ovechkin.” Nicke rolls it around in his mouth. “Sasha Ovechkin.”

Sasha’s eyes are fucking glinting at him from across the table. “You are trying to distract,” he says, “and is mostly working. But I still want hear Sweden story.”

“My first name is really Lars,” Nicke says.

“Don’t try—what?” Sasha says. “Lars? No.”

“It’s true.”

“This is why you leave Sweden? You cannot forgive them, they give you very unsexy name?”

Nicke chokes on his beer.

  


* * *

  


When the beers are finished, they just walk around the park, going in circles around the buskers and the teenagers on dates and the kids playing football. Nicke staves off Sasha’s prying by running through all the places he’s lived.

“London was fun,” he says, kicking a rock along the gravel path. “Really good for my English. Too expensive, though. And a little too...” He gestures, looking for the word. “A little too stressful. Gävle to London is a big jump.”

Sasha hums. “Poor country boy, alone in big city. Good thing nobody, what is it, uh, take advantage.”

“Gävle isn’t the country. It just isn’t London.” Nicke pauses, then slants a look at Sasha. “London was very good for finding rich older men, though.”

Sasha belly-laughs at that, loud enough that he attracts a few looks. “I bet.” He leans in closer to Nicke, bumping their shoulders, and then slides an arm around the small of Nicke’s back as they walk

It’s warm. It feels good. It’s totally unexpected, somehow, even though Sasha’s interest is hardly a secret.

He must have startled enough to be noticeable. “OK?” Sasha says quietly, pressing with his fingertips just a little.

Is it OK? Nicke has to think about it. “Yes,” he says. “If you don’t care that people can see.”

Sasha makes an offended noise. “Other men in your life, they don’t want people to see?” He shakes his head. “Is OK, I am good-looking enough, I can be next to you and not feel bad.”

“Other men did not play sports for a living,” Nicke says flatly.

Sasha nods, but doesn’t let go. “It is complicated,” he sighs after a moment. “Even for me. Maybe special complicated for me.” He looks at Nicke conspiratorially. “I do not want you to think I have a big head, but I am pretty good.” Nicke snorts. “But, hockey is hockey, and not everybody cares so much.” He makes a wry face. “Some people care too much.” He gestures with his free hand around the park. “But anybody here, I don’t think they know who I am. They think, that’s very handsome Russian man, too bad about tooth, and then they forget.”

“I don’t know,” Nicke says. “That was not what happened to me.”

Sasha presses in against Nicke’s waist with his fingertips again, making a pleased noise and rubbing against Nicke’s ribs with his thumb. “No? What happened to you?”

Nicke gives up. “I thought, that’s a very handsome Russian man, too bad about his big mouth that he tells strangers about his dick piercing.” Sasha laughs again, filling up the park, and Nicke leans into him just a little bit.

They walk in silence for a moment as the park slowly empties. Nicke reaches for something to worry about, but he comes up empty. It probably is complicated for Sasha. That’s Sasha’s business.

“If you are thinking about privacy,” Sasha says, leaning close to Nicke’s ear and breaking the silence, “You like it more if I try to kiss you behind those bush?”

This time it’s Nicke whose laugh echoes.

  


* * *

  


The bushes are kind of itchy.

They’re probably not bushes—maybe some kind of flowering tree? Nicke thinks his mother would probably know.

He’s not going to worry about it.

Nicke’s hat is long gone, tipped onto the ground somewhere. Maybe the first time Sasha reached up and cupped his face in his hand, or when he slid that hand into Nicke’s hair. Maybe when Nicke had gotten tired of waiting and surged up to kiss Sasha first.

Whatever. Nicke can get another hat.

Sasha is so warm, and so solid, and he smells so fucking good. He’s not too tall or too short, and, thank fucking God, he doesn’t kiss at all like a straight guy. He kisses like Nicke is going to kill him. He’s hard and soft in perfect measure, and he likes it when Nicke digs in his nails a little bit. Nicke can tell that he likes it, because Sasha breaks the kiss to tell him so.

“I like that,” he murmurs in Nicke’s ear, running his terrible fucking hands all the way down Nicke’s back and over his thighs.

“OK,” Nicke says, and in a fit of fucking madness he bites Sasha on the chin. Sasha must like that, too, because he just rumbles happily under Nicke’s hands and takes back his mouth.

Nicke hasn’t made out with someone in a semi-public place since he was twenty years old. He really wants to take Sasha’s shirt off.

Sasha gets both his hands in Nicke’s hair again, and gives him an almost panicked closed-mouth kiss before pulling away just an inch or two. “Say I can see you again,” he says, and kisses Nicke quickly again.

“You can see me right now,” Nicke mumbles, leaning in to get into as much of Sasha’s space as he can. He’s been trying not to notice Sasha’s body for days, for weeks—has it been weeks?—and now it’s a little tough to let go. When was the last time he got laid? How has it fallen this far off his radar? “My place isn’t far.”

Sasha makes a promising noise and kisses Nicke again, lips soft and salty from the food. But again he pulls back, and this time just pulls Nicke into a hug. His arms are like iron. “Tonight, I can’t,” he says, which leaves Nicke’s brain and dick very confused and disappointed. “Sorry.”

He sounds so genuinely broken up about it that Nicke gives him a few comforting pats on the back. “OK.” He pokes Sasha in the side and feels him jump. “Playing hard to get, eh?” Maybe Sasha has remembered that it is complicated after all. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Sasha steps back and laughs, his hands still on Nicke’s waist. “Ask me two more times, maybe I give up.”

Touché. He deserves another kiss for that, and Nicke gives him one. And another. For the road.

Sasha groans. “Nicky, stop, you kill me, I die in bush, then there is big scandal.”

Nicke squeezes the back of his neck, once, hard, and then lets go.

Sasha’s hotel is in the opposite direction across town, so Nicke waits with him outside the park until his Uber comes.

“I have idea for the next time,” Sasha says as car approaches. Nicke has several ideas for next time, all of them unspeakable. “I will text.” He squeezes Nicke’s waist one more time, then folds himself into the car and is gone.

Nicke’s phone buzzes as the taillights disappear around a corner.

_you are only sexy lars xxxxxxx_

Nicke smiles at his phone, then rolls his eyes at himself. He sighs, puts his phone in his pocket, and turns around to go find his hat.

  


* * *

  


The window in Nicke’s bedroom faces east. He’s not a naturally early riser, but the light in the morning helps.

Monday morning, Nicke lies in bed for a solid half an hour after he wakes up just trying to get his bearings. He wants to climb a mountain. He wants to pull the blankets over his head and never go outside again.

He doesn’t have a shift with the kids on Mondays, just Sebastian’s in the afternoon, so he has time to try to figure out what comes next.

When was the last time he felt this way?

When he was eighteen and he bought his first plane ticket with his own money? When he was twelve and he floated his first perfect corner kick for a game-winning goal? When he was fourteen and he held Kristoffer’s girlfriend’s hand while she got a stick-and-poke tattoo in his parents’ backyard?

Normally he doesn’t get that feeling from people. Nicke gets along great with abstract concepts. Abstract concepts don’t have their own needs or subjective interpretations or ideas about who he is.

Five or six weeks is plenty of time to fuck a lot of things up. It’s nowhere close to his record.

Nicke texts Sasha anyway.

Maybe he won’t even respond.

_morning. i don’t have a shift wed nights. maybe could make another night work but would have to get someone to switch w me_

When Sasha doesn’t respond right away, Nicke throws on shorts and a t-shirt and wanders out into the kitchen. One of his roommates is sitting at the kitchen table, headphones on, eating oatmeal. Oh well. Can’t win them all.

“Guten Morgen, Lars,” Nicke says, grabbing bread from the cabinet and putting two slices in the toaster. Lars doesn’t respond. Lars probably can’t hear him. That’s a mercy.

Nicke eats his toast quickly. “Always a pleasure, Lars,” he says, and then heads back to his room. His phone sits on the bed, unblinking.

Nicke decides to go for a run.

If he’d planned this, he would have gotten up a little earlier before it got this hot, but it’s still a decent day for it. Running along the Rhine hasn’t gotten old. The sun on the water is bright, so he brings his sunglasses. Last thing he needs is a migraine.

He’d had a little more to drink the night before than he’d planned, but his body feels OK overall. Maybe a little slower to hit his stride, but by the time he’s made it the mile from his apartment to the riverfront he’s found his pace. Sweat beads on his neck. Good.

Nicke can’t help but start running through the usual checklist, starting from the bottom up. Feet feel fine—feet always feel fine, sure on the concrete. Ankles feel nice and steady, nothing lasting from when he turned the left one eight months ago. His right knee has started clicking when he walks up stairs, but it feels normal for now.

Dick has its own concerns, none of which are relevant now.

He can tell he’ll be hungry when he gets home—does he still have those takeout leftovers from the other night? No stitch in his side. Lungs have the usual burn, but he’s not lightheaded or breathing faster than he should be.

Five kilometres up the riverfront, he stops, crossing his arms above his head for a moment to help him catch his breath. Then he drops two fingers to his pulse, counting out the beats silently with an eye on his watch. 150 bmp, or close. Totally fine.

He turns around, takes three deep breaths, and picks up his pace.

  


* * *

  


When he gets back home, Lars has left, the sink is full of dishes, and his phone is blinking merrily.

Nicke takes a shower before he opens the messages.

_wed is perfect ! want to see koln hockey ? promise will make it fun ))))))_

Then a selfie of him and the really tall guy, Tom, both of them looking incredibly sweaty.

_work hard training ! tom says hi, says ear hurt but his fault_

Nicke frowns. He should have tried harder to talk Tom out of the cartilage piercing. He briefly considers asking Sasha to sneak a photo of his ear. Probably not professional.

_glad to hear you are finally getting in shape_

They must still be on a break, because Sasha responds with his usual speed.

_hahahaha all for you xxxx ))))))))_

_what time is the game?_

_1900, ok i pick you up at 1800?_

Pick him up? Nicke supposes that’s nice. He shouldn’t be surprised that Sasha would want to go to a game for a date. Hell. Why not. Nicke can’t remember the last time he watched hockey in person, or without his family there.

_sure x_

He sends Sasha his address, then turns off his phone and heads to the refrigerator. He’s starving.

  


* * *

  


When Nicke arrives at Sebastian’s, Andre is in his room and spinning in his chair, which feels unnecessary.

“How was your weekend, Nicky?” Andre asks, still spinning.

“I worked on Saturday, which you know,” Nicke says, grabbing the back of the chair and rolling Andre out of the way so he can tuck his backpack in the cabinet under the counter.

Andre drifts gently to the other side of the room, then kicks off the wall to sail back towards Nicke. “Nicky,” he says, “do you know who called and left a message just now?”

Given how poorly Andre is hiding his glee, Nicke assumes this must be bad news for him. “I do not.”

Andre puts his feet up on the counter. “Tom.” He pauses for a minute, waiting for Nicke’s reaction. “Beefcake Tom. Tom who was here—”

“I know who Tom is,” Nicke interrupts. “And get your feet down, this is a fucking workplace.” Andre does, and Nicke makes a note to wipe the surface down before any customers arrive. “His rook still bothering him?”

Andre is quiet for a second, and Nicke’s mistake dawns on him. He turns and looks at Andre, whose smile is horribly victorious. “How did you know that, Nicklas?”

Nicke’s brain whirrs through his options before settling on an old standby. “Go away, Andre.”

“Tell me how you did it, Nicky, please,” Andre says, going limp in the chair. “You don’t have to give me details, I know you won’t, but come on. You have seduced at least one athlete, I know you have. Mentor me.”

“Is that your career plan, then?” Nicke asks, opening the drawers by his sink and double checking that he has enough gloves and swabs to get him through the day.

“Well, not now,” Andre says. “Now my plan is to seduce _you_  once you marry him so I can get in on the divorce money.”

Nicke sighs. In fairness, it’s more of a plan than he has. “Go away, Andre.”

Andre gives up for the moment, probably bored, but Nicke knows it won’t last. “Tom wanted to know if we’re open on Thursdays, wants to come have you look at his ear,” he says, finally relinquishing Nicke’s chair.

“Call him back, tell him any time after 1400 I’ll be around,” Nicke says. “And to make sure he’s doing his saltwater rinses as hot as possible.”

“ _I’m_  as hot as possible,” Andre mutters on his way out the door.

  


* * *

  


Nicke doesn’t know what else he expected.

Of course Sasha picks him up in a big black fuck-off SUV, blocking a lane of traffic outside Nicke’s building with his hazards on. He’s not even in the goddamn vehicle when Nicke gets outside.

“Taxi for Mr. Hamlet?” he says, grinning, and opens the passenger door.

“Get in the car before you get a ticket,” Nicke says, and climbs in.

Sasha has somehow gotten his hands on an actual Kölner Haie t-shirt, shark mascot stretched across his chest. At the first red light, he gives Nicke a look over and raises an eyebrow.

“Black is actually one of their colors,” Nicke interjects before he can open his mouth.

Sasha scoffs. “I am just thinking how sexy you are,” he says, feigning outrage. “Need to be more trust, Hamlet.” He reaches out and squeezes Nicke’s knee with his right hand. “Also, present for you in backseat.”

Nicke twists around and sees a paper bag on the seat behind him. He stretches to grab it and brings it back to the front seat.

“If it is your jersey I am getting out of this car,” he warns, and Sasha laughs.

“No, jersey is third date.”

It’s not a jersey. It’s a bright red-and-white Kölner Haie scarf.

Sasha thinks he is very funny.

Nicke makes a show of shaking the scarf out and draping it around his neck. “I think it suits me,” he says at the next red light, twisting to face Sasha and pulling a face.

Sasha smiles, and then he grabs both ends of the scarf in one hand and hauls Nicke in for a kiss, and Nicke finds he is smiling too.

Nicke’s teeth are in Sasha’s lip and Sasha’s hand is up Nicke’s thigh when the car behind them starts honking.

Thankfully, the SUV’s tinted windows hide the obscene gesture Sasha sends their way before he hits the gas. “Zhopa,” Sasha mutters, and Nicke does not require a translation for that.

“My apartment is empty,” Nicke points out. Sasha glances over. “Just a thought.”

Sasha frowns into the rearview. “You don’t want to go to the game?”

Hmm. Shit. “I want to go to the game,” Nicke says, shrugging. “I want several things.” He looks sideways at Sasha, who is smiling again. “I am easy to please.”

“Oh, you are a liar,” Sasha says, grinning, and his hand is back on Nicke’s knee.

When they reach the arena, Sasha has access to a special VIP parking area. Sasha has access to a special VIP elevator. Sasha has gotten them a box all for themselves.

Nicke still isn’t going to google him.

“You always hang out in the fancy people section?” Nicke teases as they take their seats. They’re leather. “How the fuck did you end up in Sebastian’s?”

Sasha raises his eyebrows at him. “We liked the sign. And fancy people section is for you,” he says. “You want, we can go walk in regular section, you can take five hundred pictures of me with fans.”

Nicke blanches. Sasha laughs in his face.

“Is not so bad. I will go down some intermission, say hello, say sorry about playoffs.” He tugs on the ends of Nicke’s scarf. “You hide here, I bring you ice cream.”

In the fancy people section, you don’t have to get your own ice cream. In the fancy people section, very nice people come and bring you food menus and beer in real glasses. Nicke has vague memories of some special treatment with his father, but Gävlerinken wasn’t this nice, and his father wasn’t Sasha, whoever Sasha is.

Sasha orders one of everything.

It’s an exhibition game, so the arena’s only half full and the home team’s probably only half as good as they might be. Nicke still gets pulled in. He leans forward in his seat, absentmindedly gnawing on a soft pretzel.

The visiting team—they’re either bears or wolves, Nicke’s not quite sure, but they’re in orange—dominates most of the possession in the first period, putting the Sharks’ goalie to work. Nicke’s not watching him, though.

He wipes mustard from the corner of his mouth and nudges Sasha. “Look as they go through the neutral zone,” he says, pointing at the orange second line centre. “He’s gonna do a drop—” and before he can finish the sentence, the center leaves a drop pass for his blue line. “He’s been doing it almost every time his line is on the ice.”

Sasha hums with pleasure. “Nice. You think Sharks have noticed?”

Nicke shakes his head, watching the Sharks’ goalie make another glove save. “Nice. Mm, no, I don’t think so yet. But they will.”

Five minutes from the end of the period, the right winger on the Sharks’ first line intercepts the drop pass, breaks away, and scores.

The arena erupts. Sasha leans across the surprisingly plush armrests and nudges Nicke with his elbow. “Almost as smart as you, eh?” Nicke sticks a french fry in his ear.

When the horn sounds, the score’s still 1-0, with the Sharks having just killed off a Wolf-Bear powerplay. Sasha stretches extravagantly and rubs his stomach in satisfaction. “I like those fried pickles. You want more fried pickles?” he asks hopefully. Nicke would very much like to put his fingers in his mouth.

“Shouldn’t you be on a diet plan?” Nicke asks. “Eating, I don’t know, raw meat and protein powder.”

Sasha raises his eyebrows. “You gonna tell on me?”

Nicke shrugs. “Tom is coming to see me tomorrow. Anything could happen.”

Sasha frowns in confusion for just a moment. “Oh! For ear.”

“Mhm. Maybe he tips extra for information on his teammates,” Nicke says, reaching across the seats to poke Sasha in the stomach.

Sasha grins and catches Nicke’s hand in one of his, enveloping it. It’s warm. Nicke tugs a little, testing Sasha’s grip. Sasha holds firm, eyes twinkling. Nicke can tell he isn’t using his full strength. Neither is Nicke.

“He shouldn’t,” Sasha says. “Everyone knows what I am like.”

Nicke hums and holds his gaze. “What do they know about me?”

Sasha squeezes his hand. “Enough.” He doesn’t let go.

The nice people will be back soon to take away their trash and ask them if there’s anything else they want. Nicke’s almost done. “I don’t need to talk too much,” he says, slowly. “But I don’t like to lie for other people.”

Sasha loosens his grip and presses his thick thumb into the heel of Nicke’s hand, massaging it. “Then don’t.” It feels good.

The nice people come, and leave, and come back again with fried pickles and more beers. Nicke makes a mental note to tip them well, though he isn’t sure if he’s supposed to. He hasn’t tipped with confidence in ten years.

Sasha crunches into a pickle and points down toward the teams retaking the ice. “Make bet with me,” he says. “I say Sharks win.”

Nicke scratches behind his right ear, trying to disentangle a strand of hair from his industrial. “What are we betting?” The second period starts; the Wolf-Bears win the faceoff.

“Winner picks next place we go,” Sasha says.

Nicke smiles and shakes his head lightly. “When I get your jersey?”

“When you get jersey.”

A Sharks defender gets called for hooking. “I’ll take that bet,” Nicke says.

The Wolf-Bears score on the powerplay, a messy rebound tap-in. Nicke throws a hand up and takes a deep draft of his beer as Sasha pouts. “Sharks are playing prettier,” Nicke says. “But not better.”

Sasha narrows his eyes at him, but he doesn’t look displeased. Nicke turns his attention back to the game. The Sharks coach has swapped the left wingers on the first and third lines. Nicke doesn’t think it’s going to help.

“You ever play?” Sasha asks off to Nicke’s left, and Nicke frowns without taking his eyes off the ice. “Little Nicklas, beating up all the other blonde children?”

If only. “Do you always talk so much during games?” Nicke says, eyes still front and shoulders suddenly halfway to his ears. “Some of us are trying to pay attention.”

Sasha’s silent for just long enough that Nicke starts to worry, and then he dissolves into giggles. Nicke can’t help but glance over at that. “What.”

Sasha’s still laughing. “You are not going to like.”

The Sharks give up another powerplay. “What,” Nicke repeats, kicking lightly at Sasha’s ankle.

Sasha reaches out and tugs at the end of his scarf again. “You sound exact same as my mama.” Nicke splutters, which sets Sasha off again.

By the time Sasha regains his composure, the Wolf-Bears are up 2-1 and Nicke’s blush is mostly fading.

“Don’t worry,” Sasha says. “I like my mama, she is great lady.”

How has Nicke’s life led him here. “Honestly, that makes it worse, thanks.”

Sasha reaches across to lace their fingers together, somewhere between a peace offering and a straight jacket. They sit that way for ten minutes, quiet, watching the game, Nicke’s free hand on his beer and Sasha’s switching between playing with his phone and finishing off the pickles.

“So,” Sasha says eventually, and Nicke half-wonders if he put a timer on his phone, “You never played? Or you didn’t like.”

Hell. “I learned to skate, I liked that,” Nicke says. “But I never played, no.” He lets go of Sasha’s hand, reaching up to fiddle with his hair again.

He can practically hear Sasha frowning. “Why not? Your papa don’t want you to?” Sasha nudges their knees together. “You don’t want to do family business?”

Nicke bounces his leg, watching the clock count down. Five minutes left in the second period. “Does it matter?” He looks over to meet Sasha’s eyes. “What is it? You want to know if I tried, so you know you are better at it than me?”

Sasha narrows his eyes. “That’s not very nice.”

No. Doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Nicke shrugs. “I am probably not very nice.”

Sasha keeps looking at him, long legs stretched out and fingers laced together over his chest. “Maybe not. But I am still trying to know you.” He raises his eyebrows. “And you are the one wants to just watch game, no talking, so maybe you care more about hockey than me.”

Nicke huffs a laugh, conceding the point, and they sit in silence for a few moments more. Down on the ice, a Sharks player drops his gloves, but his target on the Wolf-Bears gets the better of him.

Sasha breaks the silence again. “You are right, is easier for me to ask about things I know.” He gives Nicke a sideways look. “But not because I want to talk about hockey all time, yell about how I am so great.”

Nicke glances back over at him. “It does come up a lot.”

Sasha laughs and kicks Nicke in the leg. “So you talk. Tell me about how you are so great. I want to know.” He leaves his foot resting gently against Nicke’s. “Have to listen to too many people about hockey anyway. You are nicer to listen to. Even when you are not being nice.”

Nicke lets that sit for a minute. He watches as the two fighters are escorted to the box. He can’t quite follow the German, but the scoreboard indicates that the Sharks player is getting an additional penalty for instigating. They’ll end the period on the PK.

It would be easier if he weren’t interested.

“What I like about football,” he says finally, without preamble, “is that, okay, it’s better to play on a nice pitch. Good turf, good cleats, great. But honestly, you get three friends, a ball, some space?” He shrugs. “You’re good there.”

Sasha hums but doesn’t interrupt.

Nicke continues. “And if you just want to practice, all you really need is a ball and shoes you can run in. You can play in the cold. You can play in the rain. You can do it yourself.”

Sasha taps his foot. “Hockey, not so much.”

Nicke nods. “The rink, the gear. So much time. My brother played, so I saw.” He takes a drink. “You can’t play hockey by yourself. Without help.” He drains his glass. “So when my parents said I could only play one sport, I picked one where nobody could stop me.”

The Wolf-Bears look good on the PP, but one of them puts a nasty hit on the Sharks’ centre and earns his own trip to the box. Sasha does not appear to be watching.

“One? Why?” he asks, a note of disdain in his voice. Nicke gets it. He tries to imagine Sasha as a boy, eager and unsubtle with a body that would do anything he wanted except turn off. Nicke had not been so different.

Nicke scrubs a hand through his hair, probably ruining it. “I was born with a, uh,” he taps his chest, searching for the word, “a heart defect. Your heart has two parts, right?” he says, looking at Sasha until Sasha nods. “Chambers? OK, and there’s, um, a wall between them. But mine had a hole, they weren’t totally separate.” He sighs. “Normally they see it while you’re still a baby, but mine was small, and they missed it until I was a little kid.” Nicke can barely remember it now. Just flashes of sense-memory. ”When the two parts are connected, it makes it harder for blood to get to your lungs, so if I was running around, I would stop being able to breathe.”

Sasha squints at him but, thankfully, doesn’t do anything stupid. “Is the hole still there?”

Nicke shakes his head. “Once they figured it out, I had a little surgery and they plugged it.” Sasha raises his eyebrows and Nicke rolls his eyes. “It’s small, it’s not open heart surgery. They just use a, uh, what is it, a catheter. Not a big deal.”

“Mm,” Sasha says. “But big to your parents.”

“But big to my parents,” Nicke says. “They were always worried. No matter how much better I felt. Still scared.” He shrugs. “Their way of loving me.”

“Mm,” Sasha says again. He looks down at the ice again. The final moments of the period are a mess, board battles and big hits and turnovers. “Stupid,” Sasha says quietly, and then looks back at Nicke, a spark in his eye.

Nicke should argue. He should defend his family, who only ever wanted to keep him safe, as they told him again and again and again. “Yes,” he says. “Very.” On the ice, the Sharks score a hideous goal to tie it up. The crowd goes wild. Sasha is still looking at him.

  


* * *

  


Sasha genuinely does go get ice cream during the second intermission, and the third period is halfway done by the time he makes it back. Nicke doesn’t entirely mind the alone time. He needs a minute.

“Sorry, is a little melt,” Sasha says when he gets back, passing Nicke a styrofoam cup and a fistful of napkins. “Still good though.”

Nicke tugs the plastic spoon free and takes a bite. Strawberry, over Sasha’s objections. Delicious. He swallows and eyes Sasha’s cone. Vanilla. Not what he would have guessed. “How were the fans?”

Sasha takes a goddamn bite out of his ice cream like a fucking madman. “OK,” he says, mouth full, as Nicke tries to silently forgive him. “Same as usual. Nice. Bad at lying.” He gives Nicke a smile. “Is nice to meet fans in different countries, compare.”

“And?” Nicke says, eating another spoonful. “Thoughts on Germans?”

Sasha takes a moment to think about it, looking up at the ceiling. “A little more quiet. Patient, which is nice but means it takes a long time.” He looks back at Nicke. “What would Swedes be like?”

Nicke pulls the spoon out of his mouth with a pop. “Why, have any Swedes heard of you?”

Sasha shoves his cone in Nicke’s face.

  


* * *

  


They leave before the game is technically over.

“Is easier not to try to go when fans are going,” Sasha says as Nicke scrapes the last of the strawberry ice cream out of his cup.

“You don’t want to see the end?” Nicke asks. “Afraid to lose the bet?” The teams are still locked 2-2.

“Ah, shit,” Sasha says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I forget. You look on phone, I drive. No cheating.”

Styrofoam in the trash. Out of the box. Into the elevator. Through the parking garage and towards the big black fuck-off SUV. The garage is empty, their footsteps echoing quietly against the concrete.

Sasha unlocks the SUV and gets in the driver’s seat. Nicke pauses, calculates, and makes a decision.

Sasha gives him a confused look over his shoulder when Nicke gets in the backseat. “What, you want I am your Uber driver?” he asks, teasing.

“No,” Nicke says, and waits.

The garage is dimly lit, but Nicke can still see every expression that plays over Sasha’s face in the three seconds before he growls and climbs between the front seats to get to Nicke.

Between the two of them they’re a bit too tall to do this comfortably, even with as big as the SUV is, but Nicke doesn’t care. Let his head bump against the glass when Sasha presses him up against the door. Let his thigh cramp as he works to get leverage against the floor. Better than spending another minute sitting there untouched and exposed.

Their noses knock together for a moment, and Sasha grins before turning his head sharply and finding the angle, mouth hot against Nicke’s. Nicke lets his eyes fall closed and takes his opportunity to grab a full handful of Sasha’s ass, something that has been at the top of his to-do list for at least a week. It lives up to expectations.

Sasha makes a happy noise, half-braced against the door and sliding his tongue into Nicke’s mouth. It’s good, it’s good, it’s a tiny fraction of what Nicke wants.

Nicke snakes his other hand between Sasha and the seatback, grabbing his ass with both hands. He yanks Sasha down flush against him, and digs his fingers in hard enough to bruise. Sasha gasps, breaking the kiss. He’s already getting hard. Good.

Before Nicke can properly gloat, Sasha sits back on his knees, wraps both hands around Nicke’s waist, and drags him away from the door, leaving him flat on his back on the seat, laughing and a little winded. Sasha covers him up in a second, heavy and perfect. He nuzzles against Nicke’s neck for a moment, then does something to Nicke’s ear with his tongue that is fucking gross and also rips a high-pitched and embarrassing noise from Nicke’s throat.

“You want so much?” Sasha mumbles against him.

Nicke slides a hand into Sasha’s hair and tugs. Not gently. “I think you are probably not coming home with me,” he says, voice a little rough, “So I am taking my chances.”

Sasha goes tense for a moment above him, then limp, full weight crushing Nicke into the seat as he makes an almost comical sound of displeasure. “You are making it very hard.”

It’s cruel, but Nicke can’t help himself. “I know,” he says, pressing up with his hips just a little. Sasha groans again, then sits back, glaring at Nicke.

“Devil,” he says, and Nicke gives him his sweetest grin. “You lucky I kiss you at all, taste like shit strawberry.” His hands are still on Nicke’s waist, thumb tracing circles.

“Come home with me,” Nicke says.

“I can’t.”

“Why.”

Sasha grimaces. “Maybe I want take things slow?” Nicke laughs in his face. “You are not nice at all.”

Nicke raises his eyebrows at him, still flat on his back in Sasha’s fancy car. “I am not nice? You are going to give me a complex, all this rejection.”

Sasha rolls his eyes, reaching behind himself to open the door. “You want to hear how pretty you are, just ask, I tell you all about.” He climbs out and gets back in the driver’s seat, starting the car.

Nicke stares at the ceiling of the SUV for a moment more, willing away his hard-on. Think about King Carl XVI Gustaf. Think about reindeer. Think about Chelsea winning another fucking title.

“You can stay there, but I drive soon, fans will be coming,” Sasha says.

That reminds Nicke. He pulls his phone out and does a quick search as he gets out of the backseat.

“Good news,” he says, sliding into the passenger seat and pulling the door shut.

“What?” Sasha asks, backing out of the parking space with one hand on the wheel.

“I won,” Nicke says, showing him the final score. 4-2 Wolf-Bears, who are apparently just the Bears from Wolfsburg.

“Ah, poor me,” Sasha says. “Now I have to see you again, so sad.” He pulls out of the garage, hangs a left, and guns it.

  


* * *

  


Nicke can’t sleep.

It’s not that he’s never been turned down by someone he wanted to sleep with before. It’s just that usually he understands why. And he usually doesn’t care.

He had indulged in a brief crisis of self-image after he got home, but that had been dealt with by briefly re-activating his Grindr profile. He’d let his phone buzz a dozen times in ten minutes before making it inactive again. That’s not the problem. Nicke doesn’t quite know how to see himself that way, but he’s not going to ignore evidence for the sake of false modesty.

No. It’s something else. And he cares.

Nicke doesn’t like making guesses about other people. He doesn’t like when other people make assumptions about him. Nicke likes taking people at their word and not asking too many questions.

Closing in on midnight, Nicke does something that he isn’t proud of.

Nicke googles Sasha.

  


* * *

  


Fuck.

  


* * *

  


Nicke doesn’t fall asleep until three in the morning.

  


* * *

  


He wakes up with barely enough time to make it to his before-school practice with the kids. Thank God for reliable German public transportation and hats.

The kids don’t seem to think he’s any more of a mess than usual. That’s...fine.

Thursday mornings are usually just conditioning, which is at least requires less of Nicke’s attention than a scrimmage would. Just have them run laps, stop every minute or two, shout out an exercise, and make sure they do it while they whine.

“I don’t _like_  doing push-ups,” Katrin says, flopping over on her back. She’s already hit her growth spurt, taller than any boy on the team, making her nigh-unbeatable in goal.

“I don’t like anything, and I’m still here,” Nicke shouts across the field, which is probably too forthright for the workplace, but it makes her laugh.

Halfway through he jumps in and starts doing the laps and exercises alongside them. The senior coach working the shift with him gives him a funny look, but screw him. It gives the kids a boost to make fun of him doing squat lunges, and also maybe if he works out hard enough his brain will just turn off entirely.

It doesn’t work.

At nine he has to let them leave and go to class. Maybe he doesn’t normally seek every single kid out and give each of them a good job fist-bump as they leave, or offer to do all the equipment clean-up on his own, but why not. His shift at Sebastian’s doesn’t start until one. He has plenty of time.

He still gets home before ten. He can hear music coming from Nadine’s room, but the door is closed, so she probably won’t emerge until late evening. Lars will be at work by now. In theory Nicke could catch up on a few hours’ sleep.

He looks in the kitchen. The sink is full of dishes. Perfect.

He washes all the dishes. He seasons the cast-iron pan. He bleaches and wipes down the counters and the stove top. He considers mopping the floor.

He looks at the clock. Eleven-thirty. The floor can wait until tonight.

Taking a shower is necessary, but also a mistake. His thoughts catch up to him briefly in the shower.

He scrubs his feet, massaging a little where he’e sore from practice. He soaps down his legs, wincing as he passes over a nasty bruise blooming on his calf where an aspiring winger had caught him with some cleats.

His dick is, frankly, out of its depth at the moment.

His chest has felt tight all day, but his breathing has been fine. His neck doesn’t feel right. He must have slept funny on it last night. However much he slept.

Fuck.

He doesn’t think differently about Sasha. He likes him. He wants him. He thinks he’s ridiculous.

It’s just that now Alex Ovechkin is also in the room. Nicke doesn’t know what he thinks about him yet. He knows what entirely too many other people think about him, which doesn’t help.

Nicke had known he was something, just from the fans and the attitude and the obvious money. Just from how he is. But the vague notion and the facts are two distant fucking planets.

Nicke’s kind of impressed he’s even attempting to have a private life.

Maybe he’s never done that before.

Nicke gets to Sebastian’s before anybody else and opens up early, dusting off the jewelry counter and wiping down the bathroom.

Andre walks in on him as he’s restocking the toilet paper. He stands in the doorway a moment, frowning. “Who died?”

“You can clean without anybody being dead,” Nicke says, brushing past Andre on his way back to his room. “You haven’t heard? Shocking.”

Andre hisses through his teeth. “Don’t take your shit out on me, Nicke, that’s no way to treat your only friend.” He attempts to follow Nicke into his room. Nicke wheels around to meet him in the doorway.

“You are not my only friend,” Nicke says.

Andre smiles. “Where are the others? I would love to meet them. I keep telling you I need people for Frisbee.”

“Who says you are my friend?” Nicke counters. “Colleague at best.”

Andre clutches his heart and sticks his foot in the doorway, anticipating that Nicke was about to close it in his face. “I am sorry about whatever is up your ass today. Just wanted to remind you that you have your appointment at 1400.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

His appointment. Shit. Fucking hell.

A couple shows up right when they open looking for matching eyebrow piercings, so at least Nicke doesn’t have to sit alone in his room for an hour waiting for Tom to arrive. He gets there right on time, thankfully, heralded by Andre buzzing Nicke on the phone.

“He’s here,” he says bluntly. “And with a friend.”

Nicke’s stomach plummets. “Which one?”

“The first one, with the ear piercing,” Andre says. Thank God.

“Send them back.”

Both Evgeny (Kuznetsov, centre) and Tom (Wilson, winger) shake his hand when they come in, Evgeny taking the chair in the corner. “Tell me you aren’t having trouble too,” Nicke says to Evgeny, mustering an attempt at small talk. “Will be very embarrassing for me.”

Evgeny smiles with his whole face. “Nah, nah, just wanted to say hello. See if you have more ideas for me. I like it very much, I am like movie pirate.”

“I love a happy customer,” Nicke says. Even if he doesn’t end up putting another hole in Evgeny somewhere, he bets he can load him up with fun jewelry. He turns to Tom. “OK, what is going wrong?” They seem all business so far. Best news he’s heard all day.

Tom’s already hopped up on the bench, feet swinging back and forth. “It hurts, which I figured it would, but it’s started bleeding a little, and it’s really red,” he says. Nicke steps up into his space and Tom dutifully turns his head when Nicke touches his jaw with his gloved hands.

Nicke hums under his breath. If he’d known from the start how much this particular guy got punched in the head he might have handled this differently. “Yeah, it’s a little infected,” he says, looking at the swollen bump around the rook piercing. “It’s not really _bleeding_  bleeding, there’s just blood in the discharge.” He lets go of Tom, who turns back to look at him.

“Does it have to come out?” Tom asks, sounding despondent.

Nicke smiles. “No, that would be worse, actually. Then your skin would just close around the infection. Makes it harder to heal.” He steps away and slides open a drawer under his counter. “Are you doing the saltwater soaks?”

There’s an unsurprising pause. “At least one a day, yeah,” Tom lies. Nicke finds the box he was looking for, grabs two, and slides the drawer back shut.

He turns and faces Tom, making firm eye contact. “Twice a day, every day,” he says. “As hot as you possibly can. The hotter you do it, the faster it will draw the infection out.” He pauses to make sure Tom is listening. “If you let it get worse, you’ll have to go to a doctor next. I’m much more fun than a doctor.”

“OK, OK,” Tom says, running a hand through his hair. That smile probably gets him out of a lot of trouble. Not with Nicke.

Nicke tosses him one of the boxes. “I know the rinses are annoying. You still have to do them. But this is easier after workouts. It’s a sterile saline solution—just keep it in your bag, wash the piercing out after training. Then soaks in the morning and at night.” He tosses the second box to Evgeny. “If he doesn’t do it, you do it for him.”

Tom makes an offended noise, and Evgeny barks a laugh.

“Oh, you are perfect, Nikolai,” Evgeny says, tapping the box against his own temple. “Tell me, please, tell me I can do with Holtz.” He waggles the fingers on his free hand.

“That is Braden?” Nicke sighs. “You need fewer names.” He is suddenly seized with fear. “Braden’s tongue is fine, right?” He has a soft spot for Braden and his tongue.

“Oh, hell yeah,” Tom says. “I put a picture of it on my Instagram and, like, fifteen articles got written about it.” A look of horror washes over his face. “Oh, shit, I should have tagged you, dude, I’m so sorry.”

Nicke is never, ever going to take his Instagram off private, probably now for the rest of his life. “Don’t worry about it, just send Sebastian’s some love once that’s healed up,” he says, pointing to Tom’s ear.

“Yeah, Tom, come on,” Evgeny says, “You think he’s big internet guy, he’s not already all over Ovi’s Instagram?” Tom nods thoughtfully, and yup, this is precisely where Nicke doesn’t want this conversation to go.

“Did you want to talk about getting anything new done?” he says, in a way that he’s sure sounds totally fucking normal. “Maybe another hole in that ear?”

Evgeny tilts his head like a slightly possessed dog, grinning. “Well now I want to talk about what is make you go all pink,” he says. “I mean, I see Ovi suddenly all relaxed, I have my ideas, but still.” Nicke cannot allow him to get to know Andre.

“So that’s a no on the piercing, then,” he says flatly. He notes distantly that they don’t seem shocked at the concept of Sasha with a man, but whatever the situation is, it would be hell to explain even if Nicke were inclined to share. He’s not.

Tom _oooh’_ s quietly, and Evgeny throws his hands up in the air. “Ech, sorry, sorry, I am just curious.” He smiles again, a little less like a shark this time.

Nicke rolls his eyes and turns around to peel his gloves off and toss them in the trash. “If you have questions, you can ask Sasha himself,” he says.

The trash can lid falls closed. It’s confusingly quiet behind him. Nicke turns around slowly.

Tom’s brow is furrowed, and Evgeny’s eyes look like they’re about to bug out of his head.

“What,” Nicke says, exhausted.

“‘ _Sasha’?_ ” Evgeny says at an inappropriate volume. When Nicke doesn’t respond, or move, he starts laughing, sliding down the chair and covering his eyes with his hand.

“Who’s Sasha?” Tom asks.

Evgeny drags his hand down his face. “He ask you call him Sanya, you get ready for ring, OK? It will be fucking hideous, make him get one you like, he can afford.”

Nicke’s passport is still valid. He could be out of the country by midnight.

“I’m confused,” Tom says.

“You hear my parents call me sometimes Zhenya, yes?” Evgeny says. Tom nods. Evgeny shrugs. “Same. Only that Nikolai—” he points sharply at Nicke, “—meets Ovi, boom, Ovi is Sasha.”

Tom turns sharply to look at Nicke, eyes growing wider, which Nicke doesn’t care for at all. “Oh.”

Time to go. “OK, thanks for coming,” Nicke says, opening the door and holding it. “You can pay for the saline at the front desk.”

Evgeny clicks his tongue. “Ah, don’t be like this, Nikolai. Hey, I can call you now Kolya, great news.”

“Goodbye,” Nicke says, unmoving. This time they both get up.

Tom leans in as he leaves. “I think it’s very nice,” he says seriously. Tom himself seems very nice, and he needs to get out of Nicke’s space in the next thirty seconds.

Evgeny is on thinner ice, but he pauses in front of Nicke too. “Hey, I am sorry,” he says, seeking out Nicke’s eyes. “I just get excited.” He shrugs. “You seem like maybe you will kill me, that is good, Ovi needs that these days.” He grins and slaps Nicke on the shoulder. “Sasha, too, just the same.”

  


* * *

  


Andre is not Nicke’s only friend.

Nicke has friends back home he gets beers with any time he goes back to Gävle. Nicke has friends and former coworkers and ex-roommates scattered across half the EU, all of whom like his Instagram posts. He’s on good terms with most of his old hook-ups. He’s a passive member of several group texts. Lots of people wish Nicke a happy birthday every year.

Nicke sits in his room in Sebastian’s between customers, scrolling through his contacts. There are lots of names there. A lot of people who would even pick up if he called. If he wanted to.  
  
He pauses for a long moment over Kristoffer’s name.

Kristoffer is a shit who doesn’t understand any of Nicke’s choices, so he’s usually the first person Nicke calls when he feels confused about something. Not that he follows Kristoffer’s advice. But he helps clarify things. And being wrong isn’t the same as lying.

Nicke sits back and scratches behind his ear. He could call Kris. Kris would pick up. And what the fuck would Nicke say?

Kristoffer would get to Köln by nightfall if Nicke needed to be bailed out. Kristoffer covered Nicke’s lost security deposit in London, no questions asked. Kristoffer was the only person who had the decency to beat Nicke up as a kid. Nicke doesn’t think Kristoffer can do anything to help him right now.

There’s only one person who can help him.

Nicke curses under his breath and scrolls to the S’s.

_i am asking._

He waits, but not for too long.

_???????????_

_you said if i wanted to hear about it, i should just ask_

Three dots pop up. Nicke waits.

_prettyest lars)))))))) prettyest hamlet)))))))) so pretty is scarey, like middle of day and suddenly there is perfect sunset and u say o my god...wat_

OK. That is definitely the same person. Nicke tries to get the corners of his mouth under control.

Another buzz.

_u ok ? when can i see u ?_

And again.

_much better tell in person)))))_

That feels true, actually, truer than Nicke was anticipating. Nicke is still working to sort the different nightmares competing in his brain, but he tries to hold a thought in isolation. Does he want to see Sasha again?

Yes.

Soon?  
  
Yes.

OK. That’s a start.

God, what time is it? Nicke is suddenly exhausted, like all his lost sleep is hitting him at once. He squints at his phone as he taps out his replies.

 _i’m ok. thanks x_  
_still figuring out what we should do. I will text you tomorrow._

Nicke chews on his lip and taps his foot. Fuck it.

_how was your day?_

  


* * *

  


Nicke’s eyelids are unbearably heavy for the rest of his shift, but the continuous buzzing from his phone helps him make it to close at 2100. It’s a slow night, thank Christ, and he’d have to be having a medical emergency not to be able to handle the earlobes and septum piercings that come his way. But it’s easier when there’s a hideous selfie or indecipherable story waiting for him after each client leaves.

_willy say you are scarey today))))) i tell him, not so nice_

_which one is willy_

Sasha responds with another selfie of him with Tom. Tom looks affronted.

_very sad you forget already !!!!! hahahaha_

_make him do his saltwater soaks_

By the time his next customer is gone, there’s a video waiting for him of Evgeny spraying a spluttering Tom in the face with the saline solution. Sasha has Tom in a headlock. This appears to be happening in the lobby of a hotel.

 _good_ , Nicke sends.

The tram home is quiet, almost empty. Nicke can tell he’s been in Köln for a while; he can do his commute on autopilot now, finding himself back at his apartment with little memory of the in-between.

The kitchen is still clean. Nicke had forgotten. He can see a post-it stuck above the sink with a note, and he fully doesn’t care. Walking across the room to read it can wait until tomorrow.

Closing his bedroom door behind him lets the first bit of weight leave him. Then his backpack sliding off his shoulder onto the floor. Wedging off his shoes and kicking them into the corner. Hat off. Shirt off. He fishes his phone, wallet, and keys out of his jeans, dropping them on his windowsill before adding his jeans to the laundry pile.

He should brush his teeth. He plugs his phone in instead, turns off the light, and sits down heavily on the bed. It’s not even 2200. It’s been a long enough day.

When was the last time he said goodnight to anyone?

_tired. going to sleep. talk to you tomorrow x_

He hears an answering buzz as he softens into sleep. He claws one eye open. Half a dozen black heart emojis. Cute.

Nicke sleeps like the fucking dead.

  


* * *

  


In the morning, Nicke spends five minutes staring at the ceiling and reviewing the past thirty-six hours. Then he rolls out of bed, pulls on a pair of shorts, and goes to brush his fucking teeth.

As he brushes, he wanders back into the kitchen to look at the post-it note.

_Next time just ask me to do the dishes_

Nicke snorts. Not about you, Lars. Then again, Nicke has absolutely passive-aggressively cleaned before, so it’s not that far off.

His designated shelves in the kitchen and the fridge are looking a little sad, and it’s payday at Sebastian’s. It’s nice out. He could use a walk to the market.

He could also stand to do laundry. He wrinkles his nose at the pile on the floor of his room. Having a small wardrobe has made it easy to move from place to place, but it does mean laundry day comes around sooner than he’d prefer. He fishes a gray t-shirt off the floor and pulls it on after it passes the sniff test. Food first. Then the laundromat.

Some things at the market are no-brainers. Whole grain bread. Peanut butter. A single pack of the unacceptably fancy yogurt smoothies he secretly loves. Once he’s filled up a basket with his staples, he does some quick mental math. He’s got about ten Euros of wiggle room to get something else fun.

He’s wandering amongst the fancy cheeses when his phone buzzes.

_gooten morgen)))) wat r u doing_

_it’s guten not gooten. i’m at the market._

Nicke does several laps of the market, making faces at his phone as Sasha sends him suggestions of what he should buy. He snaps a picture of the brand of schmalz that Lars prefers.

_you eat this in moscow?_

_eat everything in moscow hahahaha wat is ?_

_pig fat. germans spread it on bread like butter_

Sasha sends a string of vomiting emojis.

 _yes_ , Nicke responds.

It’s easy. It’s easy to imagine Sasha walking through the market alongside him—or, more likely, bounding ahead and then racing back to Nicke with something horrible in his hand, delighted and eager.

It’s too easy. Easy enough that it probably isn’t real. It’s always easy to imagine what you want to be true.

Does Sasha—this is an insane thought to even have—does he even fucking go to the grocery store? Is that a thing that he’s even able to do? That he wants to do?

Does the person who’s (theoretically) sleeping with Alex Ovechkin get to buy his fucking smoothies in peace?

Nicke leaves the schmalz on the shelf and checks out, grabbing a bag of clementines on his way out. Good for snacks after shifts.

At home he doesn’t sit down, just unpacks his groceries, draws a smiley face on Lars’s note, and shoves his dirty clothes into a canvas bag. He has just enough fifty-cent pieces, thank God.

Nicke sometimes has trouble distinguishing all the different apartments he’s lived in, but he never forgets a good laundry set-up. Paris had been a bad fit for a lot of reasons, but that in-unit washer had made up for a lot.

Köln ranks somewhere in the middle. A laundromat a block away isn’t the worst thing in the world, and Nicke’s hours mean he can usually find an open machine—plus, he’s been here long enough to know which ones to avoid.

All his shit fits in one load, too. Nicke finds an open stool by the windows, opens up his phone, and settles in to kill forty-five minutes.

He’s let his guard down for thirty fucking seconds when he gets a text.

It’s not from Sasha—it’s in his group text for Sebastian’s. It’s a screenshot of an Instagram post.

Nicke puts his head in his hands. Then he opens the full message.

_**Kerstin:** anybody know anything about this??_

_**Kerstin:** we’ve picked up like a thousand new followers in the past few hours_

The post looks like it came from Tom, but it’s Braden and Evgeny in the photo, Braden with his tongue out. _Two happy customers of @sebastianskoln_ , the caption says. Nothing about Nicke. Could be worse.

The post is closing in on fifteen thousand likes.

_**Andre:** hey nicky you have any idea :) :) :)_

_**Stefan:** not mine._

_**Anja:** i wish! that’s awesome, who are they?_

_**Nicke:** came in a week or two ago. athletes. hopefully good for the shop_

_**Kerstin:** nice job nick_

_**Anja:** you get the tongue guy’s number? Hahaha_

_**Andre:** yeah nicky did you get anybody’s number :) :) :)_

Nicke mutes the conversation. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to focus on the person in front of him when half the planet is lurking just out of sight. He doesn’t know how anybody pulls that off.

He only knows one person who ever did.

He opens up his contacts list and makes the call before he loses his nerve.

It rings twice before she picks up. “Hallå, Nicke!” she says, sounding appropriately surprised.

“Hej, mamma,” he says. God, it never stops being a relief to slip back into Swedish. “Sorry to call out of nowhere.”

She tsks at him. “Don’t be gloomy, you know I always like to hear from you.” He does know. “I’m going to put you on speaker, sweetheart, I’m driving.” There’s some rustling down the line, and then she’s back, a little distant but still clear. “OK, I’m here.”

“Where are you going?” Nicke asks. It’s so easy to picture her, same pair of sunglasses probably perched on top of her head.

“Going to meet Sigrid for lunch,” she says. “This is good timing, actually, you know she and Olle always want to know how you’re doing.”

Nicke can barely recall the last conversation he had with his aunt and uncle. “Oh yeah? What do you tell them?”

She makes a small, amused noise. “That whatever you’re doing, you’re enjoying too much to call your mother.”

Nicke laughs. “Well, I’m doing my laundry now, so of course that made me think of you.”

“God, don’t remind me,” she says. “You know I love you and Kristoffer dearly, and there’s nothing I miss more than having you in the house, but I never want to be responsible for two teen boys’ laundry ever again.”

“I’m much better at it than I used to be,” Nicke says, which is true. Having an almost monochromatic wardrobe doesn’t hurt, either.

“Not sure how you could be worse,” she shoots back, and he laughs. There’s a moment of soft silence. “We missed you at Midsummer,” she says, inevitably.

He rubs the bridge of his nose. “I will be home for Christmas. The whole week.” This is his compromise.

She sighs, and he can hear her turn signal click on in the background. “If we’d known we’d only get to see you once a year, we might not have let you leave so easily.”

“You didn’t let me leave,” he says, keeping his voice flat.

She laughs a little. “We could have made it a lot harder for you, too.”

Nicke doesn’t have anything to say to that.

Another sigh. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I just—what did you want to talk to me about?”

Why the fuck did Nicke think this was a good idea. “I wanted—” what does he want? He starts over. “When Pappa played for Brynas. Was it hard for you?” He pushes through. “To be with him?”

“Oh.” The line is quiet for a moment. Nicke stares out through the glass storefront and waits. “Nicke, I know your father hasn’t always been the easiest—”

God, not the conversation he’s trying to have. “That’s not what I mean.” What does he mean? “Did you have to give something up? Because people knew who he was?”

“Oh!” Her tone changes entirely. “Nicke, have you met someone?”

“Don’t tell Sigrid,” he says, only half-joking. “And it was a serious question.”

“Of course it was.” She pauses. “I don’t know, darling, it was a long time ago.”

Nicke can wait.

“I don’t suppose you want to tell me more about why you’re asking?” she says. She may not quite know him, but she comes close.

“Would it change your answer?” he says, and she makes an exasperated noise.

“I don’t know—yes, I suppose, yes, I gave something up.” Nicke closes his eyes. “You know hockey was never my life the way it was for your father. Or for Kris. I had my own life. But—of course I gave something up, Nicklas, but so does anyone in a relationship. In a marriage.”

He opens his eyes and glances around the laundromat, catching eyes with an elderly man folding underwear. He better not speak fucking Swedish. “How did you decide?”

She huffs a single, patient laugh. “Nobody decides anything, Nicklas. They just make room for things or they don’t.”

Nicke scowls out the window.

He can hear the crunch of gravel through the phone. “I’m here, sweetheart. Do you want to talk more?”

Nicke sits up straight and tucks his hair behind his ear. “No, I’ll let you go.”

“OK. You are using your blood pressure monitor?”

“Yes,” he says, clipped. The silence strains. “OK. Thanks for trying, mamma.”

“I always have, you know,” she says. He will try to know that. “Anything for my littlest one.” He works to picture her, again, sitting in her sunglasses in her parked car outside Sigrid’s house, waiting on him. “You have to make room for other people in your life, Nicke,” she says, quietly.

“OK, mamma.” She can always tell him _to_ ; she never tells him _how_. “Say hi to Sigrid and Olle for me. Tell Olle Liverpool will never win anything ever again.”

“You get me into trouble,” she chides. “Love you.”

“Love you too, mamma,” and he hangs up.

  


* * *

  


He carries his clean clothes home wet, damp soaking through the canvas bag and seeping into his shirt.

In his room, he unfolds his IKEA white metal collapsible drying rack. He puts it by the window. He lays his clothes across the bars one at a time, smoothing out potential wrinkles. Six t-shirts. His coaching jersey. Two pairs of shorts. Every pair of underwear he isn’t wearing. Ten pairs of socks, carefully counted before leaving the laundromat just in case.

His mother gave him the drying rack five Christmases ago. It’s been to four countries. It stows away neatly in the corner of his room. It’s his favorite thing.

  


* * *

  


_are you free tomorrow?_

_yes !!!! all day. wat you wanna do_

_pick me up after work at 1300_

_yes))))) sebastians?_

_no, other job. i’ll send you the address_

_ok)) bring anything ?_

_no. also i googled you_

_good))))))))_

  


* * *

  


_you see these highlight video ? these best))_

_i liked the all star ones better. hat looks good on you_

  


* * *

  


Sasha can’t be expected to follow directions.

It’s about noon when Nicke spots him milling among the parents on the edge of the field, big and beaming. Nicke returns his wave primarily as confirmation to the parents that Sasha isn’t a completely random stranger. Who knows. Maybe they’re hockey fans.

Maybe Nicke runs a little harder for the rest of his shift. Who’s to say.

“I’ll finish cleaning up,” he tells Jurgen, the senior trainer, when the final whistle blows.

Jurgen raises an eyebrow. “Again? You got last time, Nicky, I can do it.” Of the bosses he’s had, Jurgen is one of the better ones, probably. And his English is better than Nicke’s.

Nicke shrugs and waits.

“As long as you know you don’t get paid extra,” Jurgen says, and shrugs back.

Nicke walks the length of the field picking up plastic cones and collecting footballs in a mesh bag. He keeps Sasha in his periphery. He’s staying on the sideline. Good.

He’s so busy not-quite-looking at Sasha that he misses the pitter-patter of tiny demon feet until Tomas is right next to him.

“Hi Coach Nicky!” Tomas says brightly as Nicke tries to manage his startle reflex.

“Hi Tomas,” Nicke says, handing him a stack of cones. “Are your parents not here? Do you need me to call someone?” Half the kids take the tram by themselves at this point, but Tomas’s parents usually pick him up.

Tomas shakes his head and starts picking up cones as they walk. “Nope, they’re waiting.” He’s half-walking, half-skipping. “I wanted to ask you a favor, please.”

“Ask,” Nicke says.

“FC Köln has a, um, a kind of youth camp coming up, in September?” Tomas says in a rush. “And my parents say I need a coach reference? For the application?”

Nicke swings the mesh bag over his shoulder and squints against the sun. “That’s not a favor,” he says, and then looks down at Tomas. “Of course. Just bring me the forms on Tuesday.”

Tomas grins. “Yes!” He jumps up in the air, halfway to his usual goal celebration, and starts running back to the sideline. Nicke waits. About twenty seconds later Tomas sprints back, hands him the stack of cones, and is gone again.

Nicke sees no reason not to smile about that.

He locks the balls and cones in the equipment shed at the corner of the pitch, saving one scuffed football that he pulls out of the bag first. He keeps it at his feet as he walks back across the pitch, kicking it forward a few feet at a time.

“It’s your fault you had to wait,” he says as soon as Sasha is in earshot.

“Oh no, so hard,” Sasha says, grinning, and his first touch is decent when Nicke passes him the ball.

They juggle the ball back and forth a few times until Sasha catches it, holding it to his chest. He waggles his eyebrows at Nicke. “Come get.”

Nicke takes a few strides closer. Sasha moves the ball to his hip and reaches out with his free hand, snagging a finger on the whistle around Nicke’s neck. “I like this,” he says, laughing and not joking.

Nicke takes a moment to look at him. He looks the same. Looking at him feels the same.

When Nicke reaches out a hand, Sasha rolls his eyes, gives a light tug on the whistle, and then hands over the football.

Nicke tosses the ball in his hands once, twice, and then turns his back on Sasha and punts it toward the other end of the pitch as hard as he can. That’s pretty hard.

He turns back around before it lands. Sasha’s eyes are wide and delighted. Nicke holds his gaze and lets a smile spread across his face. “Go get,” he says.

Sasha takes off after the ball at a full sprint, and Nicke only gives himself one second to marvel before he dashes after him.

Sasha is faster than Nicke, which is galling and unsurprising, and he reaches the ball first. He pauses over it and waits for Nicke to catch up. He probably is expecting more juggling or dribbling. Nicke slows down not at all, and when he knocks Sasha off the ball with his dropped shoulder the solid noise Sasha makes is very satisfying.

“Red card!” he shouts when he gets his breath back. Nicke has already put the ball in the back of the net. “Can’t believe Swedes, such goons.”

Nicke fishes the ball out of the goal. “I thought hockey players were tough. If you want me to go easy on you, just ask,” he says, turning, and Sasha’s answering look is clear. “OK,” Nicke says, dropping the ball to his feet. He gives Sasha a once-over. And then he does his best to run around him.

Sasha’s pretty good at football, all things considered. Nicke is better, but he’s also been out here working for a couple hours already, so Sasha can make up for the skill gap by just fucking running him into the ground.

There aren’t any particular rules to the game they’re playing, but Nicke thinks they’re fairly well-matched. Sasha puts his big body in Nicke’s way and Nicke backheels deftly away from him. Nicke tries to nutmeg the ball between Sasha’s legs and Sasha strips it from him, seeing him coming. Nicke gets more of the ball, overall, but Sasha always catches up and sticks a foot in, tripping him up.

“Son of _bitch,_ ” Sasha spits when Nicke avoids him by chesting the ball down and then booting it backwards over his own head. Nicke has already turned and taken off with the ball, but he loses his feet suddenly and gets a mouthful of turf when Sasha slide tackles him from behind.

Certainly an illegal move. Even dangerous. Nicke feels great.

He throws a hand out blindly and snags Sasha around the ankle, bringing him down heavily enough that Nicke can feel the impact through the dirt.

Sasha curses, and Nicke is already staggering to his feet, eyes on the ball that’s rolling placidly away from them.

Sasha rolls over. His eyes meet Nicke’s, then flick to the ball.

Shit. Nicke lunges for the ball, but Sasha gets there first, still on the ground, and fucking _punches_ it away. “You fucking—” Nicke starts, but Sasha finishes his movement by wrapping his arm around the back of Nicke’s knees and hauls him down to the ground again.

Nicke lands, chest-down, with a _whump_ that drives all the air out of his lungs. He can feel Sasha lying heavily across his legs—at least he isn’t running off with the ball. He pushes up on his elbows and spits dirt out of his mouth. “FIFA is going to ban you for life.”

“I probably deserve,” Sasha says behind him, still flattening his legs, and Nicke is gratified by the effort in his voice. “We tie. You can tie in football, yes?”

“Yes,” Nicke says.

“Stupid sport,” Sasha says, finally sitting up. Nicke rolls over. Sasha smiles down at him.

“You’re the one who wants to draw.”

Sasha shrugs. “I think if I tell you you win, you will never forgive me.” He stretches, arms behind his head. “And if I tell you I win, you will want to keep playing.” He winces as something pops in his shoulder. “And I am tired.”

Nicke takes a deep breath and sits up. “You are old.”

Sasha shoves him lightly in the chest and then stands up. “We will have rematch.”

Nicke would be open to that.

Nicke walks back to the equipment shed to put the ball away. Sasha follows him this time.

Nicke unlocks the door and steps inside. Sasha follows him there too.

“Excuse me, employees only,” Nicke says, slightly muffled by Sasha’s mouth as Sasha backs him up against a rattling shelf of shin pads.

Sasha mouths up Nicke’s jaw. “Just saying a proper hello,” he says warmly.

Nicke has been sweating for about four hours, flushed for probably three. Sasha’s mouth is still shockingly hot on his skin. “OK, hello,” he says, and uses his hands on Sasha’s hips to maneuver a little space. “You done?” If Sasha wants to finally get in Nicke’s pants in a shed that smells like teenagers, more power to him, but Nicke has a plan for today.

Sasha clucks his tongue and leaves Nicke’s neck alone, though he still has an arm on either side of him. “You are extra mean today.”

Nicke lifts his whistle to his lips, raises his eyebrows at Sasha, and gives it a quiet _peep_.

Sasha laughs. “I think that has different effect than you want,” he says, but he backs away from Nicke anyway, only half-tripping on the bag of footballs behind him.

Outside, Sasha starts to walk toward the parking lot. “I thought we could take the tram instead,” Nicke asks. “I have fare for you.” He’d bought a day pass in advance on his way to work.

Sasha gives him a considering look. “OK,” he says. “Jersey for you in the car, though,” and if Nicke weren’t so worn out he’d knock him down again.

On the tram Sasha swipes his pass through the reader carefully, and smiles at the conductor, and lets Nicke take the window seat before folding himself in next to him. His thigh presses up against Nicke’s as he points out the window, asking Nicke to translate signs or explain landmarks. His voice is a touch too loud, but not a single person looks up from their phones, and Nicke wouldn’t care if they did.

They get off a few stops from Nicke’s apartment. “OK,” Nicke says, surveying the block. He glances at his phone—they still have time. “We’ve got Chinese, we’ve got sushi, we’ve got regular pizza, we’ve got fancy pizza,” he ticks each off on his fingers, “We’ve got Thai, we’ve got Ethiopian, and there’s a new taco place, but I haven’t tried it yet.” He glances up at Sasha, who looks a little overwhelmed. “There’s a pretty good Indian place, too, but that’s a few blocks out of the way.”

Sasha hums. “Eating in or take-out?”

“Take-out,” Nicke says. “My treat, if you were worried about that.” Sasha shoves his shoulder hard enough that he staggers a little.

“Sushi,” Sasha says, and Nicke leads him down the block.

It’s far enough past the lunch rush that the storefront sushi place isn’t crowded. Nicke and Sasha still wind up huddled together in the corner, hunched over a paper menu, jostling shoulders as Sasha tries to erase half of what Nicke circles and keeps adding bigger and bigger sashimi platters.

Nicke has to go ask for a new menu. It’s ridiculous.

Twenty-five minutes later they leave with a remarkably heavy paper bag full of sushi that Sasha insists on carrying. Nicke looks at his phone again. They’re cutting it close, but it’ll be fine.

It’s a five-minute walk from the sushi place. Thirty seconds walking up the narrow stairs, muscles in his thighs aching happily. Ten seconds to finesse the slightly busted lock on their door, and then Sasha is there in Nicke’s unremarkable apartment.

Of course Lars is sitting at the kitchen table. His headphones are on, thank Christ, so Nicke just waves at him and steers Sasha towards his room. He’d assumed they’d watch the game out on Nadine’s trashpicked couch, but he’ll have to improvise.

“You don’t want to introduce me?” Sasha teases as Nicke closes the door behind them. “Very rude way to treat your date.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not the one I’m being rude to,” Nicke says, kicking his shoes off, before realizing there currently isn’t anywhere for Sasha to sit besides the bed, which is actually kind of rude. “Hold on.”

He ducks back into the main area and studiously does not look over at Lars as he pulls the two back cushions off of Nadine’s couch and takes them back to his room, one under each arm.

“OK,” he says when he walks back in. Sasha is already sitting on the floor, cross-legged and barefoot, taking containers of sushi out of the paper bag and laying them out carefully. He looks up at Nicke with an unhurried smile, there next to Nicke’s drying laundry, soaking up the sun from Nicke’s only window.

Nicke holds out the cushions wordlessly.

“Smart,” Sasha says, and grabs one to sit on. He cracks open the plastic container with the eel and cucumber rolls and hums with gusto.

Nicke grabs his laptop off his bed before he sits. It takes him less than a minute to find a working stream, and when it loads they’ve only missed the first three minutes of the game. Still nil-nil. He sets the computer on the floor in front of both of them and starts looking for the spicy tuna rolls.

Sasha makes a surprised noise through a mouthful of eel. “Foo’ball?”

Nicke nods. “Arsenal is playing Chelsea. Couldn’t miss it.” He gives Sasha a sideways look. “Let me know if you need me to explain the rules to you.”

Sasha rolls his eyes. “I know rules.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Nicke says lightly, and a soy sauce packet hits him square in the temple.

Chelsea scores first, of course, and Nicke curses a blue streak as Hazard celebrates. He can see Sasha trying valiantly not to laugh at him, which he appreciates. Sasha reaches out to rub the back of his neck comfortingly, which is more pity than Nicke is normally interested in when his team is losing, but it also feels really fucking good, so he allows it.

“Do you follow football at all?” he asks, and it’s not until the question is out that it occurs to him how disastrous some of the answers could be. There’s no chance a Russian living in the USA is a Spurs fan, right?

Sasha shrugs. “A little bit. Mostly World Cup, things like that. I like Barcelona,” he says.

Well, it’s uninspired, but it’s not a dealbreaker. “I wouldn’t have thought Messi would be your type,” Nicke says, eyes still glued to the screen.

Sasha snickers and grabs a California roll with his fingers. “I like them sneaky, I don’t know,” he says. “Don’t worry, you are better looking.”

Nicke is going to grumble something about that, but then fucking Hazard strips the ball from Bellerín and buries it to put Chelsea up 2-0, and he has to focus on all the despair.

Sasha pats his leg. Nicke is flat on his back with his face in his hands. “Will be OK, Nicky,” Sasha says, and Nicke can tell he’s trying not to laugh again. “Here, eat sushi,” he says, and pokes a roll against Nicke’s face, and then Nicke has to gently murder him, which at least is distracting.

Sasha is eating the last tuna roll when Lacazette gets one back for Arsenal at the end of the first half. Sasha is also holding onto one of Nicke’s hands, so when Nicke throws his arms up in excitement one of Sasha’s comes with him. “Yes boys!” Sasha shouts, while Nicke punches the air silently.

The half ends that way, 2-1, which Nicke can live with. “Got a little dignity back, at least,” he says, and he levers up off the couch cushion to start picking up the empty food containers. “Do you need any, uh, water or anything?” he asks Sasha, who answers by popping open the Coke can he’d added to their lunch order at the last minute.

“Such good host,” he says, grinning. “I am OK.”

The kitchen is empty when Nicke steps outside, and both his roommates’ doors are closed. They could watch the second half from the couch. Nicke would prefer to stay where they are.

He takes his time sorting out the trash and the recycling, washing out the plastic containers. He pours himself a glass of water. He takes a second to give himself a sniff. He does not smell great. It’s probably too late to do anything about that now.

When he walks back into his room, Sasha has moved. He’s still sitting on the floor, but he’s reoriented to lean against the wall next to Nicke’s laundry, the couch cushions propped behind him.

“This good?” he says.

“Yes.” Nicke closes the door behind him. He sets his glass of water on the windowsill and sits down next to Sasha, not quite pressed against him yet. “What are the commentators saying?”

Sasha snorts. “Stupid shit, like normal.” He pauses a moment. “OK, unfair, these ones are not so bad.” He looks over at Nicke. “Footballers are lucky, don’t have to talk to press during the game.”

“They think Chelsea’s going to win it?” Nicke asks. Sasha shrugs apologetically. “Bastards.”

Sasha puts an arm around Nicke’s shoulders and scrubs at his hair, laughing when Nicke ducks away. “Is OK, we don’t need them.” He leaves his arm where it is, then gives Nicke’s arm a soft squeeze. “This is good date. Nice job.”

Nicke huffs a laugh through his nose. “That is your halftime report, huh?” He thinks it’s a pretty good date, too. Sasha nods, looking pleased with himself. “Good.” Nicke thinks for a moment, watching yet another highlight replay of Lacazette’s goal. “Honestly, this is what I’d do on a Saturday anyway,” he says. “Thought it might be fun to do it with you here.”

He looks at Sasha out of the corner of his eye. “Well, is fun for me,” Sasha says, smile playing on his face a little more carefully than normal.

“Yeah?” Nicke says, lightly tapping his foot against Sasha’s. “You like my apartment?” Sasha nods. “You like my laundry?” Sasha nods again, this time grinning widely. “You like football?” Nicke asks, raising his eyebrows, and this time Sasha grimaces and sucks air in through his teeth theatrically, and Nicke can’t help but laugh. “At least you are not a liar,” he says, poking Sasha in the side and watching him jump. “Even if you are crazy.”

Sasha slaps his hand, and then squeezes Nicke’s arm again. “I like your life,” he says, entirely without pretension, sitting on Nicke’s floor leaning against borrowed couch cushions. “I think you are pretty good at it.”

Nicke’s brain stutters only for a moment. “I hope so,” he mutters. “I picked it myself.”

The second half gets underway, and Chelsea still sees more of the ball, but Arsenal at least hold their own, even if it’s mostly back in their own third. Cech has a particularly heroic save off of a Chelsea free kick, and Sasha whistles long and low.

Nicke gets the feeling that Sasha starts getting bored after twenty minutes with no score, though, partially because he says “Hockey is more exciting,” and partially because he slides his arm down to Nicke’s waist with a complete lack of subtlety.

Nicke does not intend to miss a second of this game. Stoppage time included.

That doesn’t mean he’s not aware of every place Sasha’s fingers graze his side.

At the sixty minute mark, the ref ignores an obvious handball in the penalty area by David Luiz, and Sasha rubs his toes against Nicke’s ankle as he curses God.

At seventy minutes, Xhaka gets a yellow card for dissent, and Sasha shifts his weight to press his side fully against Nicke’s.

At eighty minutes, Mesut Özil of Arsenal bangs a freekick across the crossbar, collects his own rebound, and scores, and Nicke fucking shouts his fool head off as Sasha laughs and laughs.

“He is your favorite, the one with the frog eyes?” Sasha asks.

“Shut up, shut up, I am never watching with you again,” Nicke says, and Sasha laughs again.

At eighty-seven minutes, it seems like every Chelsea player is going to get a free shot on goal, why not, and Nicke is hunched over his own knees watching through his fingers, and Sasha’s left hand is tracing horrible circles on Nicke’s side, and Sasha’s breath is hot where his chin is hooked over Nicke’s shoulder, and Nicke is going to die.

“You are sure you like this sport?” Sasha says softly, and Nicke is going to take Sasha to hell with him.

There are only three minutes of added time, thank God, and the Arsenal players are smart enough to make every throw-in and goal kick last about twice as long as necessary. Nicke still watches the clock and counts down with his heart in his mouth. He thinks he has about ninety seconds left before Sasha puts his hand up his shirt.

When the final whistle blows, Nicke jumps to his feet and does a victory lap around the room. It doesn’t take very long. He does another one.

“I mean, I guess if you can be happy about a tie—” Sasha says from the floor, and now he has Nicke’s full attention.

“Shut up,” Nicke says again, and he snaps his laptop shut with one of his feet and kicks it out of the way before he drops down to straddle Sasha’s lap with a hand on his chest.

Sasha looks like he just got handed a present with a fuse. Good.

Nicke looks down at him, his rising flush, his hands clenched in helpless fists at his side. “If you don’t want to sleep with me,” Nicke says, watching the way his eyes move, “You are being unkind about it.”

Sasha’s throat works, but there’s humor back in his eyes. He’s silent a moment. “...I can not shut up now?” he says.

Nicke can’t live like this. “Yes.”

Sasha has regained use of his hands, running them up Nicke’s thighs. “I do. Want.”

Three victory laps in as many minutes would probably be inappropriate. “Then take your clothes off.”

Sasha’s mouth is on his almost before he finishes his sentence, and Nicke only minds the interruption a little bit. Sasha’s lips are slick and warm, and when Nicke grabs a fistful of his hair Sasha answers by biting down on Nicke’s bottom lip hard enough to make him yelp.

Nicke has never liked any body this much.

Speaking of which. Nicke pulls back, keeping his hand in Sasha’s hair. He tongues a little at his own lip. That’s going to swell for sure. “Clothes off,” he says.

He wishes he were imagining it, but he’s not. Sasha’s face falls just a little bit. What the fuck is Nicke gonna do.

“Hey,” he says, letting go of Sasha’s hair and gripping the back of his neck instead. “What.”

Sasha’s only answer is to bring his hands up to his face and groan quietly into them.

“What,” Nicke says again, pressing his thumb into the hollow behind Sasha’s ear. God, he’s not cut out for this. “Sasha, whatever it is, I don’t care—” he winces and tries again. “OK, no, I care, I just, it’s all right, OK?” Sasha peeks out from between his fingers. “I have condoms, if it’s that, OK, and I don’t care what you look like,” and now Sasha is laughing at him again, which is fucking unfair, “We can do whatever you want, as long as it’s something, you fucking asshole, what’s so funny?”

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Sasha says, still giggling. He lolls his head back against Nadine’s probably-infested couch cushions and looks beautiful. “It’s just, you actually are nice, did you know?”

Nicke scowls.

Sasha sighs and puts his hands back on Nicke’s waist, which does an embarrassing amount to keep Nicke’s dick interested. “I need to tell something,” he says.

Nicke waits.

“I tell you something before—” Sasha says, and he cringes at himself a little, which is a brand new look for him. “I let you think something that is not true,” and holy shit, Nicke figures it out.

“Are you fucking—” Nicke sits back and recalibrates the past two weeks of his life. “You are crazy. You are an idiot,” he says, and he’s never been so delighted in his life.

Sasha cringes again, and he’s gone redder than Nicke thought was possible. “I know, is stupid, I’m sorry.”

“Why would you _lie_ about having a _dick piercing,_ ” Nicke nearly shouts.

Sasha throws up his hands. “It just happen!” He pokes Nicke in the chest. “You never have to meet you, no warning.”

Nicke grabs his poking hand by the wrist and holds it. “It just _happened?_ ” Sasha’s still red, but he doesn’t look unhappy. He doesn’t _feel_ unhappy either, based what Nicke can discern from sitting in his lap.

Nicke isn’t unhappy either.

Nicke holds Sasha’s gaze and waits for him to squirm. He doesn’t disappoint, shifting under Nicke but not looking away. “You’re embarrassed,” Nicke says. Not a question.

Sasha’s mouth falls minutely open. His chest heaves.

“You should be,” Nicke says. He looks down. Jesus, Sasha’s hard. “It’s an embarrassing thing that you’ve done.”

Sasha’s hips rock up, just a little.

“A stupid thing to lie about,” Nicke says, digging in. His blood is up, humming warm. He would really like to touch himself. “Especially to me.” He can wait. “You weren’t thinking at all, were you,” he says, and cocks his head.

Sasha thunks his head back against the cushion and grins. “Got your attention,” he says. Sasha has the most complicated life Nicke has ever heard of; Nicke still believes he thinks it’s that simple.

Maybe it is.

Maybe Sasha’s a fucking lunatic.

The light from his window slants in at a lower angle now, catching a corner of Sasha’s hair. Nicke reaches out absently with his free hand, brushing Sasha’s hair off his forehead. An uncomfortably urgent feeling rises in his throat that says: his lunatic. “Sasha.” A lunatic for him. “Don’t lie to me about what you want ever again.”

Nicke feels like he has a pretty solid grip on Sasha’s wrist. It’s mortifying how easily Sasha twists free to drag Nicke down. Then Sasha sinks his teeth into the meat of Nicke’s shoulder and puts both his hands up Nicke’s shirt, and Nicke’s willing to let it go.

“OK,” Nicke says, Sasha’s thumbs sweeping circles over his belly that make him shiver. “OK,” Sasha worrying the skin under Nicke’s jaw. Yes, Sasha has his attention.

“Stupid,” Sasha mutters, running his hands up Nicke’s back. “Think I don’t want.” Nicke turns his head blindly, lips finding Sasha’s cheekbone, his nose, before reaching his mouth. It’s not a pretty kiss, fucking his tongue against Sasha’s shamelessly. It doesn’t need to be pretty. He just needs Sasha to know.

Sasha makes a hideous noise, and Nicke pulls back, cupping his jaw clumsily. “Take off,” he takes a moment to catch his breath, “fucking, anything,” and he regrets his imprecision when Sasha’s goddamn dinner plate hands run up his ribs and pull Nicke’s shirt over his head.

“Honestly, you are—” Nicke says, shaking his hair out of his eyes, and then the look on Sasha’s face stops him, because, right, he’d forgotten.

One of Sasha’s hands traces up Nicke’s sternum, and he looks like he’s holding his breath.

“You can—” Nicke says, pulling Sasha’s hand over to his left nipple and pressing down.

“Jesus Christ,” Sasha says. He toys with the barbell with his thumb, and Nicke hisses just a little.

Nicke’s had his nipples pierced for so long that he honestly does forget they’re there half the time, enough years and healing gone by that they don’t even bother him during football anymore unless he takes a particularly unfortunate elbow.

When Sasha bends his head to Nicke’s right nipple and sucks, Nicke punches the wall behind him.

“ _Jesus,_ ” he says, as Sasha, unperturbed, flicks the barbell with his tongue. Pleasure yanks at Nicke, insistent and brutal. “Fuck you, I knew you had a fetish.”

Sasha replaces his mouth with a hand, the other going directly to the front of Nicke’s shorts, rubbing him through the fabric. “Nicky,” he says, head tipped up, finding Nicke’s eyes as Nicke stays braced over him against the wall. “Jesus, already, every time I look at you, I want to make you come,” he says, and Nicke feels himself flushing, doesn’t stop the way his hips snap forward into Sasha’s hand. “Now I find out, every day, you walk around like this?” He strains up to rub his face against Nicke’s throat. “What am I supposed to do?”

Nicke presses his face into Sasha’s hair and his cock into Sasha’s hand. “Make me come,” he says. Sasha snickers and Nicke grins despite himself. “What, I have to do everything? Use your head.”

It never gets pretty, Nicke with his dick out in Sasha’s lap and Sasha stroking him roughly with a spit-slick hand. It isn’t pretty, but it’s fucking _good_. Nicke rocks into it, dropping a hand to join Sasha’s and show him how he likes it, fingers all the way up over the crown, yes, like that. Sasha’s a quick learner, hair sticking a little to his forehead, tongue flicking out of his mouth absently as he concentrates.

It’s good, good, ugly and good, Nicke’s hands fisted in Sasha’s shirt that he’s still fucking wearing. Nicke’s awareness is blurring, shrinking and dilating, vision still clear but increasingly unimportant as Sasha pulls the pleasure out of him, digging it up and dragging it to the surface where it blots out everything else.

“Yes, this,” Sasha mutters, distant and pressed to the corner of Nicke’s mouth, thumb pushing perfect and sharp into Nicke’s nipple. Nicke makes a noise he can barely hear and overflows and comes all over Sasha’s stupid fucking shirt.

Good.

He catches his breath with his forehead on Sasha’s shoulder, taking a moment to be humid and brainless. Counting Sasha’s shallow breaths brings him back. He leans back, carding a hand through Sasha’s sweaty hair and letting him lean into it. “Take off,” he says, “your fucking clothes.” Third time is the charm.

Sasha dumps him off his lap with appalling gentleness, then gets unsteadily to his feet. Nicke looks down at himself—better to tuck his spent cock back into his shorts or just take everything off? He shucks his shorts quickly, slipping his socks off too for good measure.

When he looks up, still sitting on the floor, Sasha has already lost his shirt, leaving behind a tangle of necklaces. His sweatpants and underwear he takes off in one smooth, clearly practiced motion, and Nicke makes a mental note to give him shit about that. Later.

Right now he intends to just look.

It’s a credit to Sasha that he can bear up under it, not so much as shifting his weight as Nicke sits on the floor and takes stock of him. It takes a while. There’s a lot of Sasha to look at.

“Well,” Nicke says, finally levering himself off the floor with effort, “Obviously a disappointment, but I can manage I think.”

Sasha fills up Nicke’s personal space in a second, hauling him close around the waist and walking them backwards towards Nicke’s bed. His dick is hot against Nicke’s belly and his mouth is evil against his ear, searching kisses that make Nicke shiver.

“You say what you want,” Sasha says, sitting heavily on Nicke’s bed and scooting backwards as Nicke crawls over him. “I think you let me fuck you in the car if I ask.”

“Hmm,” Nicke says, tracing fingertips lightly up Sasha’s cock and watching him jump. “That was before I knew your terrible secret.” He reaches down further, rolling Sasha’s heavy balls in his fingers, and grins as Sasha collapses back against Nicke’s pillows. He looks good there. “You can understand how that changes things for me.”

Sasha whines outrageously, drawing a knee up. Nicke settles comfortably between them. “I make it up to you,” he says, looking at Nicke flirtatiously under heavy lids.

“Yes,” Nicke says, and bends his head to Sasha’s exquisite and unmarked cock.

It turns out that when you suck Sasha’s cock he just does not stop talking, in every language he knows. Turns out that when you suck Sasha’s cock he is compelled to make confession with his hands in your hair, telling you all the places he’d have gotten on his knees for you: the car, yes, the box at the arena, the bushes, obviously, the shed, the football pitch, Köln Cathedral, the street. He shouldn’t say things like that to Nicke. Nicke will remember. Nicke is always paying attention, especially with a dick in his mouth.

He is paying attention, so when Sasha curses and says “Fuck, Nicky, I want, I want, fuck, I want to come on your tits,” his eyes fly open and he pulls off with a filthy noise.

“My _what,_ ” he says.

Sasha has an arm flung over his eyes, but Nicke can still see his smile. Doesn’t mean he’s joking. The way he’s twisting his hips to fuck up into Nicke’s hand would indicate that he’s not kidding at all.

“Your fucking, zaebis, your perfect tits you’ve been hiding from me,” Sasha says, just a hint of laughter in his voice.

“ _I’ve_ been—” Nicke says, affronted, and gives Sasha a rough stroke. “You’re impossible.”

Then again, Nicke did tell him not to lie.

Nicke rolls his eyes, spits in his hand, and leans over Sasha as he jerks him off in earnest.

“Oh, shit,” Sasha says, voice thick with delight as he scrabbles at the sheets, “Oh, so good to me, fuck.”

It takes less than a minute to get him there, tight little groans punching out of Sasha until he stripes up Nicke’s chest.

“Fuck,” Sasha says again, with feeling, melting back into the bed. He looks ready to pass out before his come has even dried.

Not so fast. Nicke reaches out and grabs one of Sasha’s hands, pressing it to his chest and smearing it through the mess there. “This what you wanted?”

Sasha’s eyes light up, and he squeezes Nicke’s chest hard enough to leave a livid red mark. “Yes,” he says, simply and devoid of chagrin. Nicke would like to make him lick the come off his fingers. Next time.

  


* * *

  


Nicke’s had a long day. He manages to halfway clean himself and Sasha off with handful of tissues before he crashes, lying naked on top of the covers with Sasha’s arm slung across his chest.

Pretty good date, overall.

  


* * *

  


When Nicke wakes up, the light is faded and warm; it’s evening, maybe dinnertime.

That’s not what he notices first.

Nicke jolts awake, and Sasha is honestly lucky he doesn’t catch a knee to ear. Then again, Sasha’s got both Nicke’s legs pretty well pinned, so maybe he’s planned for this.

“Shh,” Sasha says, nestled between the spread of Nicke’s legs and looking smug about it, “Busy,” and he goes back to sucking what feels like it will be a truly exceptional bruise into the soft flesh of Nicke’s inner thigh.

It’s not the worst surprise Nicke has woken up to—that would be in Antwerp with the rat—but he doesn’t want to let it go unanswered.

Fuck. It does feel good, though.

Nicke takes a moment to dial in on the sharp ache of Sasha’s teeth and the rasp of Sasha’s beard. Then he looks for an exit strategy.

Sasha’s got one of Nicke’s legs up over his shoulder and held tight. Nicke flexes his quads experimentally, testing Sasha’s grip. Not a lot to work with there.

Nicke gets a moment of clearer thinking when Sasha leans back from his work, looking satisfied, but then the fucking monster just shifts his head slightly to the right and sinks his teeth into a new spot.

“Shit,” Nicke says, tipping his head back and hissing. The leg Sasha is tending to is even worse off than the one over his shoulder; Nicke tries to get it up off the bed. Sasha pins it down with a hand on his knee like it’s nothing.

Nicke knows intellectually that Sasha is stronger than him. Obviously.

He should have kept up with those jiu jitsu classes.

Sasha sucks hard on tender skin, and Nicke whimpers despite himself. That won’t do. It would help if he weren’t getting hard quite so fast.

He gives it one more shot, straining and squirming against Sasha’s grip. Sasha has to break focus to hold him down, which is gratifying. But Nicke might as well be shackled to the bed, and Sasha shoots him a look that pisses Nicke off and makes his dick twitch.

He’s gonna have to take a different approach.

Nicke takes a deep breath and focuses on the third hickey Sasha is putting on him. He lifts a hand, staying propped up on one elbow, and slides a hand down his chest. Skating his nails across his own stomach makes him shiver. No point in teasing, though. Nicke makes sure Sasha is looking when he wraps his hand around his dick.

There’s more than one way to get control of the situation.

Nicke jacks his dick luxuriously, moving slow and steady and firm. Sasha still has his teeth in him, but he also has his eyes open. Nicke keeps it up, letting his mouth fall open and feeling his chest flush.

It feels pretty good—a little dry, probably not enough to get him over the edge on its own. That’s not the point.

Sasha sucks down again, hard, and this time Nicke is happy to slip free a moan without restraint. He doesn’t let up, either, exhaling soft sounds every time he palms over the head of his dick. He doesn’t get a lot of opportunities to be loud. This counts as a special occasion.

The sharp sweet pain from Sasha’s mouth is easing off. The pressure from his fingers digging into Nicke’s thighs is growing. Nicke tries not to look too pleased with himself.

He looks down and finds Sasha’s eyes again. He licks his lips and triumphs at the way Sasha’s eyes flick to his mouth.

Nicke strokes himself faster. “I’m going to come,” he says, voice rougher than he expected. The _without your help_ he figures he can leave unsaid.

He’s still not used to the way Sasha can _move_ , whole body shifting at once with feral certainty.

Sasha knocks his hand away from his dick, pins it to the bed, and gets Nicke in his mouth before Nicke even gets to grin about it. Nicke hopes he’s reclaimed enough dignity for one day, because he’s done with it now. Fuck. _Fuck,_ Sasha’s got a greedy mouth. It’s hot and wet and impatient, and God, if Nicke had known he wanted it like this he would have made Sasha beg for it.

Nicke doesn’t remember falling back against the pillows, but he’s staring at the ceiling, pressing his heels against the bed and twisting his free hand in Sasha’s hair. Fuck. He...did he win? Is he winning?

His dick hits the back of Sasha’s throat, and he groans, and shit, Sasha does too.

Sasha lets go of his hand, and it flies automatically to grab another fistful of Sasha’s hair. Sasha hums and pulls up, laving his lips over the head of Nicke’s dick and jerking the rest, slippery with his own spit. Nicke had been exaggerating when he’d said he was going to come before. Serves him right.

“Keep doing that,” he chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut. Pleasure punches through him. Again. Again. He’s close.

He doesn’t realize he’s let go of Sasha’s hair with one of his hands until he digs his fingers into the bruises on his thigh. “Oh, _fuck,_ ” he says, pain lifting everything up, and Sasha starts moving faster, “Fuck, fuck you,” Nicke says. It’s the last thing he manages before he comes, half in Sasha’s mouth and half out as Sasha laughs and splutters.

Nicke’s blood roars in his ears as he blinks up at the ceiling, and then Sasha’s there, roughly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Awful,” he says, laughing, braced above Nicke with his hair hanging down, “You are terrible.” Nicke flops up a heavy hand to pull him down and shut him up.

Sasha’s mouth tastes like sleep and the salty-sickness of Nicke’s come. It’s disgusting. Nicke’s gonna jerk off about it later.

With the mess on Nicke’s stomach it’s easy for Sasha just to rut against him, Sasha’s tongue on his neck and Nicke’s hand grabbing lazily at Sasha’s ass. Nicke is working on his third layer of sweat of the day and his muscles are starting to scream; Sasha can do most of the work from here.

Sasha presses his forehead against Nicke’s cheek. Nicke can feel his hot breath on his jaw. “I can’t stay long,” Sasha says, and Nicke rolls his eyes at the ceiling and wraps a leg around Sasha’s waist.

“You’re not invited,” Nicke says, and he can feel Sasha smile. “Now come on,” and he pulls together his third wind, pressing his hips up against Sasha, “Come on, fuck me,” he says, because Nicke does feel fucked.

Sasha comes with Nicke’s tongue in his mouth and the first stars pricking through the sky, but before he does he slams the bedframe so hard against the wall that Nicke’s forgotten water glass falls off the windowsill and smashes on the floor.

“I will clean,” Sasha says, unmoving, a few minutes later. Nicke snorts.

“Don’t bother,” he says. Sasha is dead weight on top of him, face buried half in the pillows, half in his shoulder. An errant chunk of Sasha’s hair loops in front of Nicke’s face, and he carefully tilts his head to bump it with the tip of his nose. “You have to go, yes?”

Sasha rumbles. “Early training tomorrow.” He lifts his head sleepily, and Nicke restrains the urge to gently headbutt him. “I am already not going to do so great. If I stay—” he grimaces. “I will be dead.”

Nicke half-nods and stretches, letting Sasha begin the process of disentangling. Nicke has tomorrow off. Nicke is going to give it at least an hour before he leaves this bed.

He watches Sasha stagger to his feet and start picking his clothes up off the floor, stepping carefully around glass. He looks like a fucking mess. Nicke smiles at his turned back.

Sasha pulls on his underwear and shorts and turns around. He gives Nicke a once-over and raises his eyebrows. “Good look for you,” he says, looking self-satisfied, and Nicke flips him off.

Sasha picks his t-shirt up off the floor, grimaces at it, and uses it to wipe some of the stickiness off his chest.

“I should make you wear that home,” Nicke says, idly, and it’s mostly a joke, but the way Sasha goes still and fixes him with a ready look catches him in the throat. God damn. “You can borrow something, I’ll wash that,” he says, softly.

Sasha’s mouth quirks. “Good to me,” he says, and grabs a plain t-shirt off of Nicke’s drying rack. “Clever, now I have to come back.” It’s a little small for him, stretching across his chest, but black is forgiving.

“Mhm,” Nicke says, stretching. “Because you couldn’t replace a t-shirt.” He’s already halfway back to sleep. It’s been a long day. “You want me to walk you out?” He hadn’t thought about that, but it’s the polite thing.

Sasha tugs his shoes on and then paces back to the bedside, grinning. “I want you to stay there until I come back,” he says, and Nicke musters the energy to roll his eyes again. “I can find my way.” He bends over and kisses Nicke on the forehead. “Don’t forget glass,” he says. “I will text.”

Nicke grumbles affirmatively, and Sasha laughs, and by the time Nicke hears the door click shut his eyes are already closed.

  


* * *

  


Nicke sleeps for a solid twelve hours.

The last time he’d done that he’d been twenty, cheerfully tripping his way home from getting his wisdom teeth removed in a Paris clinic, passing out on his roommate’s couch, and waking up half a day later with a mouth full of blood.

Nicke likes to think he makes better decisions these days.

He squints against the early morning light and takes stock. The bruises aren’t anything he isn’t used to. The soreness in his hamstrings might make working out a little tougher than usual for the next day or two. He should probably be hosed down with a pressure washer.

He doesn’t even want to wrap his clean towel around himself, so he ducks his head out his bedroom door and makes sure Lars and Nadine’s doors are closed before padding nude and quickly to the bathroom.

It’s Sunday. Nicke has nowhere to be. He turns the shower on as hot as he can stand and sits down in the tub until the hot water runs out. When he finally stands up and washes his hair clean, it’s freezing. He feels very, very awake.

He can’t believe he already has to do laundry again.

He’s fucking ravenous, so he puts some toast on and drinks one of his smoothies before he strips down the bed. He balls the sheets up, trying to keep the worst of it in the middle. He’d rather not have to buy another laundry bag.

He picks Sasha’s shirt up off the floor, holding it out at arm’s length. What even is the design on it? Part skyline, part pin-up, part...perfume commercial, maybe? Nicke could do them both a favor and lose it.

Nicke finds his phone kicked into the corner of his room, clinging on to 15% battery. He’s missed a barrage of pleasantly horny texts from Sasha from after he fell asleep. He ignores them and taps out a new message.

_you are sure you want to keep this shirt? i can make it disappear_

He expects to have to wait to hear back, but his phone buzzes almost immediately. Right. Early training.

_good morning xx )))) and yes! favorite shirt!_

Nicke looks at the phone, looks at the shirt, and looks back at phone, and looks back at the shirt.

_why_

Instead of a response, he gets a selfie of Sasha on a bus, looking fucking ragged. Somebody’s head is leaning on his shoulder. Maybe Evgeny?

 _hate bus. hate train._  
_of course favorite shirt. any shirt makes you come like that must be favorite_

The face Nicke makes at that doesn’t go away for a long time, so he takes a picture of it and sends it back.

He shoves the shirt in the laundry bag. He’ll allow it to live another day.

He can feel his phone buzzing merrily away in his pocket and chooses to ignore it. He still has that much self-control.

Nicke takes a deep breath, turns his attention to the broken glass all over his floor, and then realizes his toast is burning.

  


* * *

  


On Monday at work, Andre takes one look at Nicke’s bruised throat and beard-burned jaw and promptly throws a mug at him.

“Fucking _hell,_ ” Nicke spits, unbending from his flinch and looking to see where the damned thing went. Seems like it was empty, at least. “That could have cracked my fucking head open, you brat.”

Andre is laid out limp in his chair at the receptionist desk. “It would never hit you, you’re too lucky,” he moans through his hands.

Nicke fishes the mug out from where it landed on one of the couches on the front area and puts it back on Andre’s desk with more gentleness than he’s earned. It’s a Monday. He’ll go easy on him.

Andre repays him by immediately snapping out of his tantrum and snagging Nicke around the wrist. “We are getting drinks after close,” he says, barrelling through when Nicke tries to interrupt, “Don’t start, I paid last time, you _owe_ me, and you are going to tell me _everything_.”

Nicke stares him down, flexing his forearm just a little.

“I’ll do your timesheets for a month,” Andre says.

What? Who doesn’t like doing their timesheets? “Don’t be an idiot,” Nicke says. “But you’re buying.”

Andre grins, sweet and genuine, which is the worst part. “Thank you, Nicky,” he says as Nicke heads down the stairs.

“Don’t touch my timesheets.”

At the bar, Andre is happy to do most of the talking. Nicke knows the right sort of open-ended questions to ask him to get him rolling for a good ten minutes at a time. How are your roommates? Have you heard from your sister recently? Where did you get those shoes? Who sings this song? It’s easy to get him going.

Then again, every once in a while Andre drops a joke that Nicke laughs at in a way that’s maybe a bit too revealing, or Nicke nods along at something he shouldn’t nod along at, and the warm edge in Andre’s eye makes Nicke thinks he’s less escaping than being circled.

So each of them has the other’s number. He supposes that’s what makes them friends.

After about half an hour, Andre sets his beer down carefully, wiping a bead of condensation off the rim with one long finger. “All right,” he says, and then fixes Nicke with a serious look. “Enough. How big is his dick?”

Nicke, tired from a long shift and a long week and a long year, loses it immediately, wheezing through his hands and bent double over the table. Andre, to his credit, manages to hold his serious face for about three seconds before he cracks too, kicking Nicke under the table.

“Jesus Christ,” Nicke says, eyes watering a little as he pulls himself together.

Andre grins at him, then lets his face fall stern again. “But seriously, how big is it,” he says, and it sets Nicke off for another minute.

“Fucking hell,” he says finally, catching his breath. “It’s proportional. Do you want another drink?”

Andre does. So does Nicke. They settle in, Andre poking questions, Nicke deflecting those he won’t entertain and answering those he will. Yes, he’s going to see him again. Yes, he’s enjoying himself. Yes, he has looked him up. No, he’s not surprised Andre looked him up, even though that’s probably some sort of ethical violation.

It could be worse. Andre does him the kindness of not taking it too seriously. Nicke isn’t going to betray Sasha’s confidence; Sasha would tell anybody about the size of his dick. But Nicke will take a chance to laugh it. Not at Sasha’s dick. Well, sure, he would. He probably already has. Has he? Right now he’s just laughing at his life.

He’s a little drunk.

“When does he go home?” Andre says, burping a little bit.

Nicke could maybe go for one more beer. “Four weeks, I think?” He doesn’t know the exact day. “All of them head back.” He furrows his eyebrows, remembering. “Braden needs to get his jewelry replaced before he goes.”

“And Tom needs to add me on Snapchat,” Andre says flapping a hand, “But what are you gonna do?”

Nicke squints at him harder. “What do you mean?”

Andre rolls his eyes impressively. “What are you,” he points at Nicke, “and Sasha,” he makes some incomprehensible gestures that are definitely impolite, “going. To do. When he leaves.”

Nicke forgets, sometimes, against all odds, how young Andre is. “Nothing,” he says. Andre makes a hateful face at him. “Andre. We slept together one time, it’ll happen a few more times, and then we’ll say goodbye. That’s not a tragedy.”

What Andre does next is unusual. Andre doesn’t roll his eyes, or throw something, or pretend to faint. Andre just sits back in his chair, folds his arms, and looks at Nicke. And waits.

Nicke doesn’t care for that at all.

At least Andre still breaks first. “How many times have we done this,” he says, nodding down at their empty glasses, “in, say, the last six months.”

Nicke makes a face and casts his mind back. “Four? Five?”

Andre nods. “How many times have you seen Sasha now?”

Ugh. Fuck Andre. Nicke shrugs.

“I count four,” Andre says. He sets his elbows on the table. “Nicky, it’s been what, two weeks? You clearly already like him more than me, and I’m your only friend.”

“You have to stop saying that,” Nicke mutters into his beer, finishing it off. This isn’t quite as much fun anymore. “And in fairness, I haven’t been trying to sleep with you.”

Andre smiles. “Despite my best efforts,” he says, and oh, he really does look young tonight, young and brave, and Nicke adds something else to his list of things to feel bad about.

This is why he doesn’t have friends.

  


* * *

  


The next time Sasha comes over, Nicke gives him a key to his apartment.

“After all this time, you still surprising me,” Sasha says, teasing, his chin digging into Nicke’s chest on the bed.

“Be quiet,” Nicke says, and pushes his thumb into his mouth. “It’s not like we have anything worth stealing. I’d rather you let yourself in than waste time.” Sasha bites down lightly on his thumb and grins wolfishly around it.

  


* * *

  


It pays off the next day when Nicke comes home from a shift with the kids and finds Sasha, freshly showered from a training session, asleep, naked, ass-up in Nicke’s bed.

Nicke looks at his phone. It would be easy to take a picture. He would like to take a picture.

He settles for the next best thing: revenge.

Sasha wakes up with Nicke’s teeth buried in the meat of his ass, and he comes with three of Nicke’s fingers inside him.

“Jesus Christ,” Sasha says into the pillows as Nicke extricates himself. “I just shower, you know that?”

“I bet I could put my fist in you,” Nicke says absentmindedly, and whatever Sasha has to say to that gets cut off when Nicke kneads the bitemarks on his ass. “I have to clean up, I’ll be back in a little bit.”

Nicke’s bedframe creaks under how quickly Sasha spins around. “Where the _fuck_ —” he gets out before Nicke closes the door behind him, trying to school the grin off his face and ignore his hard dick as he walks to the bathroom.

He expects Sasha to follow him. He doesn’t expect Sasha not to bother with underwear first.

Nicke’s bathtub is a little small for shower sex, but Sasha doesn’t have the patience for that anyway, apparently, because Nicke’s clothes don’t even make it all the way off before he’s half-bent over the sink, making sympathetic eye contact with himself in the mirror as Sasha rucks up his t-shirt and pinches at his nipples.

“You like to wind me up,” Sasha says into his neck. Yes. “I think it winds you up to wind me up, maybe.” Yes.

Nicke doesn’t _love_ coming in a sink, but he doesn’t hate it either.

“Clean up your mess,” he says, tossing Sasha a hand towel, and steps into the hot water. Add it to the laundry list.

  


* * *

  


For a settled and married man, Kris texts Nicke at odd hours. Nicke’s theory is that it’s what he does when he can’t sleep.

 _mamma says you were being weird_  
_don’t be weird to mamma_

Nicke squints at the screen in the darkness, then huffs and sits upright. He had hoped to catch up on his sleep tonight.

_is that what she said_

_i don’t need help to recognize weird nicklas_  
_since when do you call her_

As if Kris knows what Nicke does.

_sorry, didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. next time i’ll call you first_

_prick_  
_anything i need to know_

Nicke is just sleepy enough not to question his first thought.

_yeah i’m sleeping with alex ovechkin_

_idiot. very funny_  
_since when do you watch hockey_  
_whose number is this_

  


* * *

  


Nicke hasn’t googled Sasha since the first time. He remembers what he read, though.

Another free afternoon, another slow evening, takeout containers kicked into the corner and rolls of fifty-cent pieces stacked on windowsill. Nicke had complained about the increased costs of his laundry.

“Fuck, you make me feel cheap,” Nicke had said, laughing, as Sasha bore down on him.

“Hmm,” Sasha had mulled as he pulled his shirt over his head. His hair goes fucking everywhere. “How about I will make you feel expensive.”

Now, as Sasha lounges on his stomach and plays with his phone, Nicke lets his fingers walk down his bare spine, watching carefully for what makes him twitch. Nicke has not yet run out of ways to find Sasha entertaining.

His hand comes to rest flat on the small of Sasha’s back, between two of his tattoos and in line with the third. Sasha hasn’t told him what they mean. Who they’re for. Sasha doesn’t look up, but there’s the tiniest bit of extra tension under Nicke’s hand, and when Nicke glances up he sees Sasha has been looking at the same Instagram picture of somebody’s breakfast for an unreasonable amount of time.

Sasha doesn’t even like breakfast food.

“When you want,” Nicke says, quietly as he can manage. He lifts his hand away, and then glances back to see Sasha watching from the corner of his eye. “If you want,” he specifies, shrugging one shoulder. Then he grabs his own phone off the nightstand and lies back down alongside Sasha.

He’s scrolled mindlessly past half a dozen pictures of his own before Sasha leans over and thunks his forehead deliberately against Nicke’s shoulder. Nicke rubs a toe against his ankle, and it’s enough.

They go back to their phones for a moment before Sasha speaks up. “You have work in the morning?”

Tomorrow is Friday, so no. Nicke shakes his head. “Have to open Sebastian’s at noon.”

Sasha grins, tapping at his phone. “I am going to buy you waffles,” he says with relish, which is how Sasha ends up sleeping over for the first time.

  


* * *

  


Where Sasha normally sleeps doesn’t really occur to Nicke until Lars brings it up one morning.

“You ever think about maybe going to his place?” Lars grouses around a mouthful of schmalz. Nicke frowns thoughtfully and leans against the sink, digging his thumb into the peel of a clementine and peeling it in a few quick movements.

“Lars,” Nicke says, popping a wedge into his mouth and chewing noisily, “That is a good point. Thank you.”

“You can pay me in sleep,” Lars mutters.

Sasha brings Nicke dinner that day, paper takeout bag in hand, which is very nice and incredibly stressful until Nicke can go on break and steer Sasha out of the reception area and away from Andre’s desk.

“He just jealous,” Sasha calls over his shoulder, then yelps at the cruel pinch Nicke digs into his side.

“Ugh, I _know,_ ” Andre says, voice fading as the door swings shut behind them.

Sasha elbows Nicke in the ribs and then slides a palm flat along his back as they walk down the street. The streets are busy, and Sasha’s been recognized a few times, but he hasn’t stopped the touching. “I don’t know what you worry about, he’s good kid,” he says. Then waggles his eyebrows. “ _Very_ friendly.”

Nicke snorts and picks a bench to sit on two blocks from Sebastian’s. “Worried you maybe have a thing for Swedes.” He sits and reaches down to touch his toes, stretching out the first half of his shift before flipping his hat backwards. “What did you bring me?”

“Figure we eat fast, got burritos,” Sasha says, Slavic r’s rolling. He opens up the paper bag and pulls out a foil-wrapped cylinder. “No tomatoes,” he says, and passes it to Nicke, who kicks his ankle lightly in thanks. “And you still pretty young, don’t need new model.”

“Just let me know,” Nicke says, peeling off the foil, and then he digs in.

It’s still light out, and Nicke’s clients have been tipping well tonight, and Sasha’s disgraceful v-neck shows off the hickey on his collarbone beautifully, and Nicke can’t find a single thing wrong with the fifteen minutes they spend absolutely destroying two burritos, side-by-side in silence.

Sasha finishes first and starts trying to feed pigeons his leftover lettuce shreds. Nicke watches. It doesn’t work very well.

Nicke finishes off the last bite and crumples the foil into a ball. “Thank you,” he says. “Are you doing anything tomorrow night?”

Sasha looks up from the pigeons with a smile. “Not fair, very sexy when you make loud chewing noises.”

Nicke burps at him.

“Gross,” Sasha says, delighted. Nicke’s going to be a little late back from his break. It can wait. “I can come over, yes.”

“What if I come over?” Nicke says, nudging his shoulder against Sasha’s. Maybe Sasha will say no. Nicke won’t mind. But he’s curious.

Sasha makes a considering noise, like the idea had never occurred to him either. “Sure, if you want. Is just hotel.”

Nicke suspects it is probably fancy enough to infuriate him, but that’s not the point. “Any reason not to?”

Sasha shrugs and stretches his legs out. “Just hotel. Nothing of me there.”

Nicke lolls his head toward him. “Where are you?”

The smile splits Sasha’s face. “Here.” He reaches out and rubs a hand over the crown of Nicke’s head. “Come over, why not.”

Nicke ducks his head and looks at Sasha sidelong. “More privacy.” The heat that spreads over Sasha’s face is very satisfying. “Maybe we find something to do with it.”

A pigeon coos. Sasha ignores it. “Come now, quit job, I have some ideas,” Sasha says, smiling with his tongue pressed against his teeth.

“After a burrito? You’re disgusting,” Nicke says, and he throws out their trash as Sasha throws his head back and laughs. “Come on, walk me back.”

They’re a halfway back, weaving around the pedestrians they outpace, when Sasha leans in close to Nicke’s ear and murmurs, “So horny for privacy.” Nicke may choke on his own tongue, but the headlock he gets Sasha in is pretty good, and if dragging him into an alley to kiss his mouth shut only proves his point, Nicke isn’t going to be the one to point it out.

  


* * *

  


Nicke remembers what he read, so he notices when he learns something new.

Sasha can do math in his head faster than anybody Nicke has ever met. Nicke’s pretty sure Sasha doesn’t have a better handle on German tipping etiquette than Nicke does, but he’s happy to let him handle the calculations.

Sasha has a terrible memory for dates, so he keeps a terrifyingly complete calendar on his phone of holidays, anniversaries, birthdays—anything that might be reason enough to send somebody flowers or tweet about them. Nicke has three beautiful days of refusing to tell him his birthday until Andre ruins it. The calendar says that Sasha is leaving Germany on a Tuesday.

Sasha FaceTimes his parents every day unless they’re traveling. Nicke’s usually at work, but he still makes a note not to expect a text back between 1600 and 1630.

Sasha does still go grocery shopping, though sometimes he uses a delivery service in DC when things get busy. He likes to be the one controlling the cart, which is enough reason for Nicke never to let him.

Sasha has two older brothers. One of them is in his mid-thirties, and one of them is always going to be twenty-five. Sasha uses the present tense for both of them, and Nicke does too.

  


* * *

  


It’s only luck that Nicke is still awake when Kris texts that night. Whoever moved into the flat below Nicke’s is extremely passionate about house music.

_are you awake_

Nicke considers ignoring it. He’s with the kids in the morning. It’s gonna be a long day.

_i am now_

He waits for the text back, but instead his phone lights up with an incoming call. He stares at it for a moment before picking up.

“Is everything OK?”

Kris snickers down the line at him, and Nicke considers hanging up. “Yes, gloomy. You have a minute?”

It’s not like Kris to ask. Nicke rolls over on the bed and stares at the ceiling. “Two, even.”

There’s a quiet moment that Nicke doesn’t know what to do with. “I haven’t told Mamma and Papa yet,” Kris says, and Nicke’s brain starts whirring, “so keep it to yourself for the next twenty-four hours, OK?” There’s a thin sweetness to his voice that is new to Nicke. “Maja is pregnant.”

Nicke sits bolt upright in the dark. “Holy shit.”

“I know!” Kris laughs. “Holy shit.”

His brother is going to be a father. If you’d asked Nicke, he would have said it was possible, even likely. Kris and Maja have been together forever. Nicke likes Maja.

This shouldn’t feel like it changes anything.

“Holy shit,” he says again.

“Yeah,” Kris says, and it’s easy to imagine him, probably sitting in that fucking hideous chair in his stupid fucking mancave. Will that have to be the nursery now? Holy shit.

“Congratulations, man,” Nicke says. “That’s great news. How is Maja doing?”

Kris sighs. “Perfect.” Nicke has to smile at that. “I don’t know how I pulled this off, but I’m not going to fucking tell her that.”

“Honestly, I don’t know either,” Nicke says. “But I’m glad.” He is. He can be glad and nauseous at the same time. “Let me know how I can help.”

Kris snorts. “Kid won’t be able to kick a football for a year or two, don’t get too excited.”

“I’ve pierced babies’ ears before,” Nicke muses, and listens with satisfaction to the rant that sends Kris on for a few minutes.

After a while, he interrupts. “I promise,” Nicke says, “Not to put any holes in your offspring unless they ask, and even then I will wait until they are at least fourteen.” How old will he be when this kid is fourteen? How old will Kris be? His parents? God. His parents.

“Demon,” Kris grumbles. The sit in silence a second. “But if your busy schedule of shitty jobs allows,” he says, “you should come home in March or April next year. Meet the little screamer.”

“Love you too, Kris,” Nicke says. “I’ll try.”

  


* * *

  


Sasha’s hotel is very nice. Nicke is, as he anticipated, furious.

In fairness, it’s not like he’s been in the friendliest mood the rest of the day. But this place isn’t helping. Why is everything glass? Why are all the chairs uncomfortable? There’s an orchid behind the front desk the size of of an armchair. That orchid is probably somebody’s entire goddamn job.

The front desk guy is giving him the placid look of a professional who knows better than to look actively suspicious.

Nicke should let Andre paint his nails again sometime.

He should have thought to bring swim trunks.

Next time. Sasha finally meets him in the lobby, the only warm thing in the room, and Nicke gives the front desk a merry wave as they walk to the elevators. “You think they think I’m an escort, your personal trainer, or bringing you drugs?” Nicke mutters under his breath as they wait.

Sasha raises his eyebrows. “Depends on how long you stay,” he says as the elevator _dings_ open.

“Good point, there,” Nicke says, walking in. “Fuck, is that an aquarium? No wonder you didn’t want to bring me here.”

Sasha rolls his eyes. “I bring you anywhere you want, you just ask.” He leans against the elevator wall as they ascend. Nicke watches the blue reflected light of the aquarium slide over his face. “Just like your place better.”

Nicke huffs a breath out through his nose. “Next time I’ll bring my laundry.”

Sasha makes a considering face. “Actually, maybe not bad idea, I think is free for me,” he says, and then they’re on his floor.

Sasha’s room is, of course, more than one room. Nicke spots the jersey laid over the back of a chair immediately. “No chance,” he says, pivoting away and tossing his backpack onto the couch. Is that leather? Ugh.

Sasha sidles up behind him, hands on his waist and nose in the curve of his neck. “You have to take eventually,” he says, swaying them back and forth in the middle of the room. “How was today? Good?”

Nicke leans back against him despite himself. “Good,” he says. Long. His quads ache and he can feel a touch of a headache coming on. Not enough sleep. But not enough to complain about. “Kids are going to kill me eventually. I’m proud of them.” Sasha hums happily and tightens his grip. “And I don’t have to do anything.” Nicke’s pretty sure the balcony on this suite overlooks the Rhine. God, sometimes it would be nice to have money.

Sasha runs his hands up and down Nicke’s sides. “My job to convince,” he says, and OK, yes. Yes.

This will take Nicke’s brain out of his head.

Nicke squeezes Sasha’s hands in his and then lifts them off, stepping out of Sasha’s arms and deeper into the room. He glances around to get better bearings as he takes his hat off and tosses it next to his bag on the couch. Bed around a corner off to the right. Shiny kitchenette to the left, that’s cute. What looks like a truly massive bathroom beyond the kitchen. Big windows that Nicke thinks must fill the place with light during the day.

Nicke pauses in a reasonably open section of the room, past the couch but not yet to the bed. He turns and looks at Sasha, who is standing where he left him with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, rocking on the balls of his feet.

“OK,” Nicke says, cracking a few of the knuckles in his right hand. “Convince me.”

Sasha takes a second to blink, then cocks his head to the side. He’s planning his approach. Nicke appreciates that.

When he comes, it’s not an ambush, but it’s not tentative either, Sasha weaving smoothly between the glass coffee table, the leather couch, eyes on Nicke’s the whole time.

When Sasha reaches for Nicke with his first hand, it’s easy enough for Nicke to deflect it, holding tight to Sasha’s wrist. He grabs the next one, too, each of Sasha’s arms held out away from him, but what he doesn’t think through is that, of course, Sasha just keeps coming, bearing down on him, walking Nicke backwards. Shit. It takes Nicke a crucial second to release Sasha’s wrists and try to duck under one of his arms, and Sasha is faster; he catches Nicke around the waist and heaves him back. Nicke’s back hits the wall with enough force to wind him a little.

Nicke can see the concern skip across Sasha’s face, but he doesn’t move the forearm he has barred across Nicke’s chest, thank God.

“Somebody else,” Sasha says, close enough that Nicke can feel the puff of his breath against his mouth, “I think, now, I get on my knees, that will make them happy.” Sasha ducks his head to brush a kiss to Nicke’s cheek, quick enough Nicke doesn’t feel it until it’s already gone. “I don’t think that is what you are looking for tonight.”

Nicke searches his face. Nicke can’t remember the last time he looked for anything. There must be a window open somewhere; Sasha’s hair is moving just a little, not quite a breeze but at least a draft.

Sasha blinks, and Nicke surges up against his arm. It’s enough to get him a few inches clear of the wall, but not enough to go farther; Sasha’s arm drops him back like a closing door, driving the breath back out of him.

“Is it?” Sasha says, and now Nicke blinks, taking in the firmer set of Sasha’s mouth.

Nicke swallows. “Some other time,” he says, and Sasha uses his other hand to grab a fistful of Nicke’s hair and _pull_.

Nicke is flooded briefly with a horrible and bottomless gratitude, and he hopes Sasha can hear it in the cry that escapes him. Then he twists his neck and sinks his teeth into Sasha’s forearm.

He doesn’t break the skin, but it’ll bruise. Sasha snatches his arm back with a snarl, and Nicke manages to mostly twist out of his arms before Sasha wraps his arms around his waist again and drags them both down to the floor.

At this level, with the carpet scratching against his face, Nicke has a moment to think: the hotel’s really not that different from anywhere else.

Then Sasha’s weight lands, pinning his hips and shoulders, pushing his cheek and hard dick into the floor. Nicke hisses and his mouth waters.

“Anything you want,” he hears, and Sasha’s right there, voice rumbling in Nicke’s ear, chest bent over Nicke’s back, left hand twisting back into Nicke’s hair. All Nicke can do is suck in air, world gone sideways. He wants Sasha to shake it and see what falls out. “Anything you want,” Sasha repeats. His other hand snakes up under Nicke’s shirt. “Only you gotta tell me.”

Nicke lets the cold blast of anger wash over him, through him, and away. He doesn’t notice his fists still clenched in the carpet until Sasha’s hand leaves his side to cover one of them.

“Hey,” Sasha says, somewhere over his head. “Is not so bad, telling.” His fingers stroke over Nicke’s knuckles and wind in Nicke’s hair. Nicke breathes in the plastic carpet smell and squeezes his eyes closed, focused on the feeling. “Come on,” Sasha says, and Nicke can pick out his thumb stroking over his neck. “I say I suck you off in church, you can’t tell me what you want?”

Nicke laughs at that, surprising himself, and Sasha gives his hair a soft tug. Nicke hates getting rewarded, but he’ll let it slide. “Fuck,” he says, almost still laughing. He turns his face down, pressing his forehead into the carpet. Sasha’s still got his chest pinned, but his ribcage feels full, swollen, expanding. He’s felt panic before. This isn’t quite that.

“Fuck,” he says again, drawing as deep a breath as he can, “fuck, Sasha, fuck me, come on.”

Sasha rumbles above him, digging his chin into the tension in Nicke’s shoulder. “Yeah?” he says, and Christ, Nicke likes it rough but he doesn’t always like it _difficult_. “You want that?”

“Yeah,” Nicke grits out, softly, and flexes back against Sasha just a little. He can’t feel it with the way Sasha is sitting astride his hips, but Sasha is hard, he _knows_  he is, he can hear it in his voice. He can smell it on him.

“Hmm,” Sasha says, half-muffled in the crook of Nicke’s neck. “You gonna let me?”

There’s that feeling again, like there’s too much of Nicke to fit in his body without bursting, too much for Sasha to hold down. “Yeah,” Nicke says, not far above a whisper, spreading the fingers that had been clenched under Sasha’s and watching them slot together. “Yes, you fuck,” he says, louder, and now Sasha is laughing, “If you know what the fuck you’re doing, you—” and Sasha sinks his teeth into Nicke’s neck, and that’s the last thing either of them says for a while.

  


* * *

  


Somewhere in there, while Nicke is tearing Sasha’s back to perfect ribbons, and Sasha is folding Nicke most of the way in half and wiping Nicke’s brain with his perfect dick, Sasha bends his head to Nicke’s chest. “Good to me,” he pants between heavy dragging thrusts, and it’s just so patently untrue that Nicke, bewildered, can’t do anything but tear up and come.

  


* * *

  


Nicke wakes up first, blinking blearily and going still when he realizes Sasha is still asleep. The room is lit up with sun, and some of Köln’s normal morning noise is filtering in through the open window, but Sasha is dead to it all, drooling on the hotel-white pillows.

It’s a big bed, with room to fit Sasha and Nicke and two wet spots comfortably, and it’s easy enough for Nicke to slip out of bed without waking him. He hisses at the burn in his thighs when he stands—he’s going to be stretching that out for days.

He pads as quietly as he can around the bed, picking up his shorts, his shirt, his underwear. Dirty laundry in hand, he stops at the end of the bed. The light really is nice—he was right about that—and it hides nothing. The livid scratches down Sasha’s back. The crescent bruise in his forearm, flung across the empty side of the bed.

Nicke leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor and goes to take a shower.

It takes a minute for him to work out the temperature controls, but the shower has the best water pressure he’s felt in years. He makes an actual noise when it hits his shoulders, and he stays under the spray for longer than he should, scrubbing down with the tiny bottle of body wash.

When he gets out, grabbing a white towel off the pile, he notices the toothbrush, still in its packaging, that must have been set out the night before. Most of the stuff in the bathroom seems like it was bought here, German branding and barely used.

He steps out of the bathroom, still in the towel but with fresher breath. The bed is empty.

A quick flick of his eyes around the suite—the kitchenette, the seating area, back to the bed just in case—reveals no sign of Sasha. Then, a gust of wind. The balcony door swings a touch wider open.

Sasha’s sitting in a lounge chair on the balcony, nursing a cup of coffee and squinting against the light as he fiddles with his phone. He’s wearing underwear, which Nicke might not have bet on.

“Hej,” Nicke says, because it’s the same in Swedish or English. Sasha looks up and smiles.

“Guten Morgen,” he says, r’s all wrong. It’s nice. “Made coffee, not sure how you like yours.”

It’s early enough that the heat of the day hasn’t set in, and Nicke has been running on fumes for days, so yes, he would love coffee. “Too sweet,” he says.

Sasha grins broader. “I am,” he says, and it takes Nicke a second.

“Fuck off,” he says, and Sasha’s laughter follows him back inside as he goes to pour himself a cup. The kitchenette comes with a little set of sweetener packets, and Nicke pours in three before going to find himself some clothes.

His bag is where he left it on the couch, and he trades the towel for a pair of soft basketball shorts and an Arsenal t-shirt he assumes will make Sasha laugh. The jersey eyes him from across the room. He eyes it back. Not a chance.

He leaves the jersey where it is and stuffs his dirty clothes back in his bag. His phone blinks at him when he retrieves it from a pocket. He ignores that too, leaving it to charge in a corner.

There are two lounge chairs on the balcony. They’re positioned symmetrically, splitting the space evenly, which Nicke likes in theory. In practice, he pushes the empty one over with his foot, scraping it across the concrete, until he and Sasha can sit and enjoy their coffee elbow-to-elbow.

The view doesn’t disappoint. The sun makes the Rhine glitter, and even though it’s early Nicke can see the dots of people down on the banks, running, walking their dogs, playing with their kids. The dark spires of the cathedral peer from between modern buildings, amusingly out of place as always.

Nicke really does like this place. It’s nice to be reminded.

Next time he runs along the river, he’ll try to go farther.

Sasha shifts in his chair and stretches to put one foot up on the railing, long legs just reaching. “Sleep good?”

Nicke squints into the sun, thinking. “Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, really good.” He takes a sip of coffee and smiles into the mug. “Worn out, I guess.”

Sasha snorts and brings his foot down so he can kick Nicke’s ankle lightly. He leaves it there, tucking his toes under Nicke’s calf.

“You?” Nicke asks, more to reciprocate than because he doesn’t know the answer.

“Yeah,” Sasha says, and flexes his toes. The sit in silence a moment. Nicke closes his eyes against the sun and listens to the soft traffic sounds. He feels warm all over. Much longer and he’s gonna have to ask if Sasha bought any sunscreen.

“Was a good idea,” Sasha says, and Nicke opens his eyes. “You coming here.” He’s looking out at Köln, but he slides his eyes over at Nicke. His pointer finger taps absently against his coffee cup.

“Good,” Nicke says. “Maybe I’ll come back sometime.” Sasha grins and shakes his head. “I know there’s a pool in here somewhere that you’re hiding from me.”

“You’re wrong,” Sasha says, raising his eyebrows. “Two pools.”

“Ugh,” Nicke says, and takes another sip. He can feel the caffeine bringing his brain online. He turns his face back into the sun and closes his eyes.

“You gonna fall back asleep?” Sasha asks.

Nicke hums. “I’m thinking about it.” He shouldn’t. He may not be working today, but that doesn’t mean he should sleep until noon and fuck up his whole sleep schedule. He could go to the gym. He could go to the grocery store. He shouldn’t fall back asleep. But he’s still thinking about it.

“It’s nice out here,” he says. It pleases him to think of Sasha out on the balcony, sunning himself like some great and terrible alley cat. “You come out here a lot?”

Sasha huffs a laugh off to his left. “Never.”

It takes five more minutes for Nicke to finish his coffee, sipping slowly. “You want more?” he asks, and reaches out toward Sasha’s empty cup. Sasha hands it over wordlessly, and Nicke heaves himself up, a mug in each hand, and heads toward the door.

He doesn’t hear Sasha get up behind him. “How do you take—” he starts, turning around, and then Sasha is there, silent on bare feet, hands on Nicke’s face to pull him into a careful kiss. Nicke makes a startled sound and sways, arms held out helplessly.

Sasha’s thumbs sweep over his temples, and Nicke’s eyes fall closed. The kiss doesn’t change, though, just fine presses of lips that keep Nicke off-balance. In the quiet that comes with being thirty stories in the air, Nicke can hear the tiny sound each of them makes, even the sound of Sasha’s beard touching his skin.

When the effort of holding up the mugs makes his arms start to shake, Nicke kisses Sasha’s cheek, his chin, and pulls back.

“Much too sweet,” Sasha says, wrinkling his nose and sliding his hands down to Nicke’s waist.

“Your own fault,” Nicke says, turning and heading inside. “Yours?”

“Just black,” Sasha says, padding after him.

“Show-off.”

A second cup of coffee is enough to let Nicke go pick up his phone.

Mostly the usual. An email notification about the electric bill, which is under his name. Next week’s schedule at Sebastian’s. A follow request on Instagram from Tom, which he slots away to be considered at a future time.

His group thread with his family has sixty-five unread messages.

Most of it is skimmable, excited messages from his mother and Kris reassuring her that yes, Nicke knows, I’ve told him. Swapping lists of which extended family members to tell now and who to wait on. Due dates and milestones. Name ideas, which Maja shuts down with such grace that it makes Nicke smile at his phone.

_**mamma:** we should do a family baby shower in december, then maybe nicke will be able to come_

_**kris:** whoa don’t go crazy now_

_**maja:** it’s a little early :) but i’m sure we can find a time that works for everyone_

“What’s that face?” Sasha asks, and Nicke’s head snaps up to see him walking out of the bathroom from his own shower.

“Nothing,” he says. “Good shower?”

Sasha shrugs. “Just a shower,” he says, and scrubs a hand over Nicke’s hair as he goes to pick out clothes.

_you should do whatever works for you m. i’ll do my best. very excited_

“You hungry?” Sasha says, and Nicke slides his phone into his pocket.

“Getting there,” Nicke says. In this moment he understands Sasha’s preference for his flat; if they were there he could just make some toast and throw some eggs in a pan and not have to go outside until the afternoon. Though he wouldn’t say no to room service.

Sasha flops down to join Nicke at the little table next to the kitchenette. “Boys are going to get late breakfast, whatever stupid English word is,” he says. He looks up at Nicke over his phone. “You should come, if you want.”

Nicke should have gone back to sleep. “You want me to?” he says carefully.

Sasha kicks him under the table. “Always,” he says, and means it, the fucking lunatic. He shrugs. “Is just food.”

Nicke’s not hungry. Nicke wants to go back to his flat and then go for a ten-kilometer run and then go immediately back to sleep.

“OK,” he says. He can go to brunch, probably. He can stare at a menu and not make eye contact with anybody and hope whoever is there is chatty enough to cover his silences but not chatty enough to ask him any questions. He can sit there next to Sasha and try to keep his shittiness to himself and just silently hate for two hours, and everybody will probably survive. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before. And it would make Sasha happy, and Nicke would like to try.

Sasha smiles. “Hooray,” he says, and Nicke does his best to smile back. Sasha picks his empty coffee cup up off the table and wanders to the sink to wash it.

Nicke’s phone buzzes, and he braces himself, but it’s not his family thread. It’s his work thread.

 _ **stefan:** can anybody cover for me this afternoon? _  
_**stefan:** my dog won’t stop puking and nobody else can take her to the vet_

Nicke does some quick math in his head. He could probably make it, but he’d have to leave soon.

That would be a fair reason to leave.

_**andre:** oh no hazelnut :(_

Nicke frowns at his phone.

“Face again,” Sasha says lightly, wandering back from the sink, and Nicke winces.

“Sorry.”

Sasha keeps walking and picks Nicke’s hat up off the couch, bringing it back to him. “Problem?”

Nicke takes the hat, plain black, between his fingers, but doesn’t put it on. Just sits there, sideways in a dining set with his elbows on his knees and Sasha in front of him.

He glances at his phone one last time. “I....sorry,” he says. He would like to try. “I don’t want to go to brunch.”

“Brunch! That’s stupid word,” Sasha says, snapping his fingers. “OK, no problem. You want me say anything to boys, or let Zhenya think you are still mad at him?”

“What?” Nicke says. And, “I don’t know who that is.”

Sasha makes an affronted face. “Zhenya! First time we meet, Zhenya is there.”

Evgeny. They all have too many fucking names, as if this isn’t complicated enough. “You can make me flash cards,” Nicke says. He watches Sasha’s face carefully. “I’m sorry, I just can’t today.”

Sasha tilts his head a little. “Nicky. Is fine. Is just food.” He takes the hat back out of Nicke’s hands and places it on Nicke’s head, a little askew. “I can brunch myself, you go sleep in coffin or whatever you do when I’m not there.”

Nicke punches him lightly in the thigh, resisting the urge to rest his forehead there. “Ass.” How long had he been holding his breath? He feels like he has a runner’s high. “Let him think I’m still mad, I want to see what he does.”

Sasha booms a laugh. “You might not like,” he says. “But should be fun.” He starts wandering around the suite, picking up his wallet, sliding his feet into shoes. “Is probably better, they all bad influence. Tell you things, never respect me again.”

Nicke rolls his eyes. “I already googled you.”

Sasha slides him a look from across the room that’s only barely distinguishable from his normal joking look. “Oh, right. How much you read, anyway?”

Nicke shakes his head. “Nothing that wasn’t some kind of stupid.” Sasha grins.

It takes Nicke less than two minutes to get everything shoved in his bag. He leaves the toothbrush where he found it.

Sasha is by the door, flipping his phone in his hand. “Ready?” he says.

“Almost,” Nicke says, not breaking stride, and Sasha laughs when his back hits the door. Nicke doesn’t quite know what he wants, but the laugh is good.

“I have to go,” Sasha says, giggling, huge and pinned.

“So go,” Nicke mumbles against his mouth. He does. Eventually.

In the elevator they stand in opposite corners. Nicke bounces on his toes and stares at the floor.

Sasha clears his throat, and Nicke glances up. “Gonna keep telling you about team things,” Sasha says. “Any of them sound like Nicky things, you tell me.”

How does he make things sound so simple? Nicke nods. “Small is good,” he says. Sasha nods. “Not surprise is good.”

Sasha grins. “Should not have told me about birthday,” he says, and even though Nicke’s birthday isn’t until November he still rolls his eyes and socks Sasha in the shoulder as the doors _ding_ open.

  


* * *

  


Nicke picks up the extra shift. He could always use the money. Hazelnut makes it through just fine. Turns out she swallowed a sock.

Evgeny asks Sasha what Nicke’s favorite flowers are at brunch, so that’s something to look forward to.

  


* * *

  


Nicke is a sore loser. He knows this about himself. He grew out of throwing tantrums by age twelve or so, but that doesn’t mean he manages better than silent fury as an adult.

It had been a surprise to discover that when the kids lose, it doesn’t bother him nearly as much. He doesn’t like it, obviously—but it doesn’t do them any good for him to lose his cool.

He’d had to impress that point upon a dad who got a little too enthusiastic during the first half. The list of people who are allowed to yell at the kids on the pitch is 1) Jurgen, 2) the ref, and 3) sometimes Nicke. Asshole dads can wait for the car ride home.

The game isn’t over yet, technically, but they’re down three with five minutes left to go, plus whatever stoppage time the ref is cruel enough to pile on. They’re not coming back. It’s all right. The kids stuck to the system well. Nobody committed any stupid fouls. They’re losing well.

Nicke, of course, would spit at anybody who told him he lost well. But the kids have always been smarter than him.

He leans in to Jurgen on the sideline. “You want to keep them back after for anything or just let them go?” It’s tempting to just let them scatter after a loss, but sometimes succeeding at a drill together before they go gets a little of the taste of it out of their mouths.

“We’ll hold them,” Jurgen says, unruffled. Nicke nods. “Listen, Nicklas,” he says, eyes still on the pitch. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

Shit. Hell. What has he done. What _hasn’t_ he done. He’s surprised no parent has found out about Sebastian’s and come for his head already.

Well. Nicke can find somewhere else to work. He’s done it before. He could ask Stefan about picking up more hours..

“An old teammate of mine works for FC Köln’s youth program,” Jurgen continues.

Oh.

“Are they interested in Tomas?” Nicke asks. He’s out on the pitch now, tireless. “I know he’s small, but he’ll grow.” His tendency to pick up unnecessary yellow cards is a bigger problem, but Nicke’s not going to bring it up.

“No idea,” Jurgen says, shrugging. “But one of their junior assistant coaches just took a job with the Bayern U18s.”

Fucking Bayern. Nicke doesn’t care that much about the Bundesliga, but nobody should win that much.

Jurgen has stopped talking.

Oh. What?

“Hmm?” Nicke says, because anything else sounds idiotic or wildly presumptuous.

“I know it would be a change, but they don’t have a lot of time to find someone, and I think you would do well there, Nicklas,” Jurgen says. “It’s not a guarantee—you’d have to interview like anyone else—but I would recommend you if you’re interested.”

Nicke stares out at the pitch and tries not to make any kind of face.

Jurgen, displaying an uncharacteristic and generous willingness to talk, keeps going. “It wouldn’t be glamorous. You’d be starting right at the bottom. But it would be full-time, and a good step.”

A good step? Nicke doesn’t take good steps. Nicke doesn’t care about good steps. What?

“Think about it. They need to find someone before the end of the month.” Two minutes of stoppage time. Could be worse. “When it ends, will you set up for a quick passing drill?”

“Yes,” Nicke says, automatic. He swallows and remembers himself. “Thank you. I will—I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” Jurgen says. “Though I’d hate to lose you. Everybody else talks too much.”

  


* * *

  


He’s not going to do it, obviously.

Nicke spends the afternoon after the game doing laundry, again. It still surprises him how it never stops. Laundry. Feeding himself. Making money to do laundry and feed himself.

He does laundry and thinks the whole time about how ridiculous of an idea it is. Of course he’s not going to do it.

Nicke isn’t cut out for that kind of shit. Nicke can only barely tolerate Jurgen and Stefan as bosses, and that’s because they barely speak to him. Nicke’s never worked a full-time job in his life, and he has no plans to start. Nicke doesn’t have plans, generally.

Nicke shoves his work jersey into the washer and slams the lid shut.

What is Jurgen’s problem, anyway? Why does everybody think his life is their goddamn business?

His phone buzzes.

Nicke considers throwing it in the wash. These ones lock once the cycle starts, though. And he’s out of fifty-cent pieces.

It’s his family thread. Nicke can tell he’s in a shitty mood, because he actually opens it as he sits down at the window instead of ignoring it like an adult.

_**mamma:** look what i found!! can’t wait to have a face like this around again_

It’s a picture of him and Kris. Nicke can’t be older than five. Two faces, blond, beaming up at the camera. On skates on the backyard ice.

Nicke’s definitely not older than six. His dad stopped flooding the yard after that.

_**maja:** so sweet!! do you still have the baby skates?_

_**kris:** are you kidding? we’re buying our kid new skates. soon as they can walk._

_**pappa:** maybe not that early. three if it’s a boy, six if it’s a girl_

Nicke only notices how hard he’s gripping the phone when it starts shaking.

It never stops. None of it ever stops. Everything happens again.

  


* * *

  


_can i come over_

_of course)) all good ?_

  


* * *

  


_nicky ?_

  


* * *

  


_i’m here_

  


* * *

  


Sasha doesn’t ask him anything until he’s out of the stupid fish elevator, thank God.

“Bad day?”

Nicke sits down on the couch. Was it a bad day? It was a fine day. He has a bad brain.

He casts about for something to say. Why is he here? “Kids lost.”

Sasha hums, hovering between the couch and the armchairs. Nicke is making him hover. Nicke shouldn’t have come. “Losing sucks,” he says, splitting the difference and sitting down knee-to-knee with Nicke on the glass coffee table.

“You are going to break that,” Nicke says. “With your giant ass.”

“Will be very funny,” Sasha agrees. He doesn’t move. “So your kids lose?”

Nicke swears he can hear the table creaking. He rubs his eyes. He’s definitely going to end this night with a headache. “And my boss wants to get me a job at FC Köln.”

Sasha pauses for a second. “OK,” he says finally, and waits.

That’s all Nicke has to say about that. He closes his eyes and lets his head drop back against the couch. “And my brother is having a baby.”

There’s a long pause.

“That’s a lot of things,” Sasha says, finally, and Nicke feels himself smile a little. He opens one eye and peers at Sasha.

“It is.”

Sasha bumps his knee against Nicke’s, which is just about exactly as much comfort as Nicke can take. He’s rattling around in here; if someone tries to smother him he’ll explode.

“You wanna say any more?” Sasha says.

Nicke closes his eyes again. “No.”

Another pause.

“You wanna get drunk?”

Huh.

Sasha’s a genius.

  


* * *

  


It takes twenty minutes at the bar for Nicke to get solidly buzzed, and ten more for him to get antsy again.

He’s a little blurry and thick-tongued before his third drink is done, and he’s not drinking slow. But being crammed into the corner of a booth at this overpriced straight people bar with Tom and Evgeny and Phillip—he’s new, Phillip’s new, Nicke tries to hold onto that—isn’t doing anything to settle Nicke’s brain. Examining Tom’s rook had been a good distraction for about thirty seconds. It’s healing. Good for Tom.

Nicke squints at his empty shot glass and resists the urge to check his phone again.

He’d thought things would be different by now.

This many years and nothing’s different. He’s not different. Nicke needs another drink.

He looks up to try and flag a server. His eyes catch on Sasha on the way. Out of solidarity or something else Sasha is putting it away even faster than Nicke, red-cheeked and a little wild-eyed. He’s the only interesting thing in the room.

“What you want, Nicky?” Sasha says, and Nicke is thinking about his drink order, which is probably what Sasha means, anyway, but—

“Can we go somewhere else?” Nicke says, and Sasha flags down the server.

  


* * *

  


Andre always answers his texts, even on a Saturday night.

  


* * *

  


Nothing does change. Nicke’s never been to this basement club—is it even a club?—but he’s still gone down these concrete stairs. He’s run his fingers mindlessly over the too-close brick walls on the way down, anchored by the textures. He hasn’t done it with a bunch of hockey players following him or with Sasha’s fingers at the small of his back. But it’s not the first time boys have followed him into the dark.

It was usually the dark of shitty hardcore bands, not shitty house music, but he’ll take it.

He doesn’t see Andre, but he isn’t trying too hard. It’s fucking dark. It’s crowded. It’s not a straight crowd. That’s good enough for Nicke. He doesn’t want to look for anything. He wants to close his eyes and wade into the crush.

Sasha must have lost his hold at some point, because when Nicke joins the crowd he’s alone.

The music is loud enough. Keeping his feet as the people around him jump and heave takes his concentration. It’s not overwhelming, but it’s a start.

What Nicke really needs is a mosh pit. What Nicke needs is a stranger he can walk up to and get knocked half on his ass without needing to ask. But the drone of the music and the anonymous elbows around him will do.

A handful of people try to dance with him, moving into his space with intent instead of carelessness. Each moves away when he doesn’t meet their eyes.

It takes three songs for Sasha to come find him. Nicke didn’t realize he was counting.

It’s not what he needs, the weight of Sasha on his back. Nicke doesn’t need Sasha’s arms around his chest. Nicke doesn’t want to be held. Nicke wants to batter himself against Sasha like he’s a brick wall, but that’s probably a little much to ask.

Nicke tips his head back against Sasha’s shoulder, opens his mouth to a clumsy half-kiss, and then pulls on Sasha’s hair hard enough he breaks the kiss to curse.

Nicke slips a little further into the crowd.

He doesn’t have a plan. Nicke doesn’t make plans.

The next person who tries to dance with him, he lets.

She’s almost as tall as he is, and her hands fall neatly to his hips. He only sees flashes of her face, but her smile says she’s not taking this too seriously. Perfect. He winds his arms around her neck, lets her lead, and watches Sasha over her shoulder.

There may be no mosh pit here, but the fiery look in Sasha’s eyes cracks through Nicke like a slap.

When the song ends, Nicke waits to find Sasha in the flashing lights and surging bodies before moving deeper in.

A slim redhead, young, shirtless, eager, who grinds hard against Nicke and tries to steal his hat. A couple who part seamlessly to surround him on both sides for half a song. A big blond, even bigger than Nicke, who pulls him back against his chest. Nicke would mind that more if it didn’t let him stare Sasha down in the crowd, catching flashes of his face in the lights.

Then a flash passes, and darkness, and light again, and he’s gone.

Nicke takes a beat or two, looking. Maybe he just lost him.

Shit. He doesn’t surface. Nicke fucked up.

Nicke pulls away from his partner, his protests covered by the music, and starts weaving toward the closest edge of the crowd.

When he breaks through, he has about two seconds of scanning the wallflowers and the crowded bar before there’s a rough hand on the back of his neck.

“Thought that would work,” Sasha says in his ear. Nicke shivers. Yes. Finally.

Sasha’s walking them toward an empty spot on the wall, and Nicke is glad the music hides the sound of relief he makes when his face presses against the brick.

“You having fun?” Sasha says into his neck. Nicke can feel him all the way down.

“Bathroom,” Nicke says. He wants to push it, wants to goad Sasha into pushing it, and he doesn’t know enough about Andre to be certain if this is that kind of club.

The bathrooms are just single stall rooms down a hallway full of flyers and graffiti and people. Sasha pushes past the line and into the first one that opens, ignoring the shouts from the people in line. He doesn’t take his hand off Nicke’s neck the whole time.

The first miracle is that the door locks at all. The second is that when Nicke’s hat falls off, it doesn’t land in anything disgusting.

The third is the way it feels to have Sasha pinning him to the wall again with his whole body, mouth open on Nicke’s sweaty neck. He pulls Nicke’s hips just far enough from the wall to start to work on Nicke’s jeans.

“This what you want?” Sasha says, hoarse. Nicke can still hear the music, muffled but thrumming.

“Yeah,” Nicke says, shredded, long past pretense. He wants more, he wants sharper, he wants Sasha to shove him onto his knees and force-feed him his dick, but. Yeah. He’d try to say more, but it just turns into a whine as Sasha finally gets his hand into his underwear and onto his dick.

“I give you what you need?” Sasha says, hand tight and twisting. Nicke’s fingers search for purchase on the wall, catching in the spaces between bricks. Sasha’s other hand works its way between Nicke’s face and the wall, and Nicke would fight the loss of sensation if this didn’t mean he could turn into it and moan loudly, muzzled.

Sasha slips a finger in his mouth, then two. Nicke resists the urge to bite down. “You need it,” Sasha says, answering his own question. “Fuck, Nicky, I need it so bad,” he says. Nicke can feel his hips working against his ass. Whatever he wants, he should take it. “I wanna suck you off, fuck, nearly—I wanna suck your dick all night,” Sasha says, and that’s not quite what Nicke expected.

He can work with it, though, if that’s—

Someone’s pounding on the door.

Nicke spits out Sasha’s fingers. “Fuck off!” he shouts in German.

A voice rattles something back through the door. It’s not in German.

Sasha shouts back. Russian. What?

The next time shouts come through the door Nicke listens more closely, forehead resting against the wall as Sasha braces himself. Evgeny.

He doesn’t stop at Russian this time, repeating in English. For Nicke’s benefit.

Sasha’s hand hasn’t stopped working over Nicke’s dick, so Nicke isn’t all that inclined to listen.

Evgeny keeps yelling, though, which isn’t doing much for the mood, even as Sasha works a hickey into the back of Nicke’s neck.

“—and they are fucking, just, really pissed, they are going to get, what is it, the big guy from the front, Sanya, listen to me, people got phones, gonna be pictures, you gotta leave now—”

And then it’s back to Russian, but Nicke gets the idea. “Fuck,” he breathes. Then louder. “Fuck, Sasha, we gotta—” he sucks in a breath as Sasha bites down harder “—we gotta go, you gotta stop.”

Sasha makes a wordless noise, teeth still in Nicke’s neck. He leaves Nicke’s dick alone, though, sliding his arms up around his torso to hold him tightly. That at least lets Nicke put himself back in his pants.

“Come on, let’s—” Nicke says, breathing hard. “Let me take you home.” He doesn’t want the hotel now. He doesn’t think Sasha does either. “Let’s go home, come on,” he says, and Sasha finally pulls them both away from the wall. “I’ll fuck you at home, I promise,” Nicke says, and Sasha doesn’t even stop to look at Evgeny as they slam the door open and head to the exit.

  


* * *

  


They get home. When they make it there, Nicke can already feel his hangover coming, and Sasha passes out in his bed in all his clothes.

  


* * *

  


Fuck. Nicke left his hat in the bathroom.

  


* * *

  


Nicke’s hangover wakes him up at—he leans over to look at his phone—fuck, 8 AM, really? His head shouts at him at the movement, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

Ugh. Nicke had not missed this. He hadn’t missed any of it.

Sasha shifts next to him, and Nicke turns to look at him slowly enough not to wake him or jar his own head too much.

Dead to the world, still. Drooling on Nicke’s good pillowcase. That’s good. Nicke needs a moment to think. And Sasha needs—something.

Nicke gets out of bed to go make breakfast.

He detours to the bathroom first. He has to piss, and brush his teeth, and shovel cupped handfuls of water into his mouth like an animal until he feels a little less disgusting. Köln’s tap water doesn’t taste too bad, compared to some of the places he’s lived. A little coppery.

He looks himself over in the mirror and takes stock.

His back is locked up pretty bad—probably as much from walking around with his shoulders by his ears for the past few days as anything that happened last night. He’s got some sort of marker left on his hand from the club bouncer, which makes him feel about seventeen years old. Seventeen had not been a great year.

What’s worse is his face. He’s got a scrape on his cheekbone, not huge, but red and unhappy. The wall.

The scrape is fine. Coming up with an answer for questions about it will be annoying.

Nicke scrubs a hand through his hair and then rubs at the back of his neck absently, until—shit. He winces at the shallow bolt of pain, then prods his fingers again to confirm. Right. Sasha. Sasha and Sasha’ teeth.

Nicke dips his fingers in rubbing alcohol and rubs it over his cheek, wincing, and then goes to make breakfast.

There’s not a lot in the fridge—Nicke makes a note to go shopping soon. But there’s bread, and there’s butter, and Nicke can make do.

He foregoes the toaster for the cast-iron this time, going through half a stick of butter by the time he’s piled a plate high with pan-brown and crunchy toast. The pan only smokes a little. The flat smells great. Lars and Nadine should thank him, honestly.

He puts coffee on.

When he comes back to the bedroom, Sasha hasn’t moved, still laid out in bed like a puppet with its strings cut. Big fucking puppet. Nicklas eases his way back into bed alongside him, holding the plate aloft gingerly. Maybe more like a powered-down Transformer or something.

Propped up against the headboard, Nicke crunches into a piece of toast.

It takes about twenty minutes for Sasha to wake up. In that time Nicke eats two pieces of toast, fills two mugs of coffee and sets them on his bedroom windowsill, and responds to the text from an unknown number the previous night that he assumes is Evgeny.

_at mine. nobody got arrested. thanks._

Then he messages his work group text.

_anybody want my shift today? can take but would rather not_

Anja snags it inside two minutes, bless her, and Nicke mutes his thread with Andre preemptively.

Sasha stirs. Nicke looks over just in time to see his slack face furrow into a frown and press into the pillow with an unhappy noise.

“Good morning,” Nicke says.

Sasha turns enough to reveal one squinting eye. “Coffee?”

Nicke nods.

His eye turns to the plate in Nicke’s lap. “Breakfast in bed?” he says, still muffled by the pillow.

Nicke shrugs. “Have to do laundry soon anyway.”

Sasha drains the coffee in about thirty seconds and crunches through four pieces of toast, and when Nicke finally takes the plate from his hands and puts it on the floor and then leans back to kiss him, his lips taste like butter.

Sasha melts, just a little, and then Nicke can feel him frown. “Sorry,” he says, lips against the corner of Nicke’s mouth.

Nicke frowns back into him. “For what?” Then, “Don’t be.” He shifts, and Sasha goes with him, leaning back on Nicke’s pillows with Nicke above him, in between his legs. Nicke has practice, now, getting the two of them to fit together in this bed that’s not quite big enough.

“Didn’t take care of you last night,” Sasha says, sliding a hand under Nicke’s t-shirt. He’s naked. He always sleeps that way. He runs so hot.

“Not how I remember it,” Nicke says. He’s not exactly in great shape, but he could be worse. “And you don’t have to take care of me.” More edge slips in than he intended.

Sasha sits up on his elbows and sighs. “Habit,” he says, smiling a little bit. “Sorry.” Nicke supposes he doesn’t hear that very often. “Like to see you happy. Give you want you want.”

Nicke twists a smile, can’t help himself. “Well, I’m never happy,” he says. “So don’t worry about it so much.”

Sasha’s face falls. He sits back against the pillows. “Fucked up thing to say, Nicky,” he says. He’s not kidding. Nicke feels like he missed a step in a staircase. Like gravity reached up a hand to yank him down. “And not true, anyway.”

Nicke doesn’t know what to say. He thinks shit like that all the time.

Sasha reaches up and brushes a thumb, barely-there, over the scrape on Nicke’s face.

Nicke swallows. “What do you need?” he asks, voice surprisingly steady. He takes Sasha’s wrist in his hand. He thinks of Sasha pressed up against him in the bathroom, desperate for something.

Sasha laughs a little underneath him. “You not done with your freakout, don’t think it’s my turn yet.”

Nicke shrugs again. “Done for today.” It’s true. He can feel the rest of his life itching at the corners of his brain, but it’s distant. It’ll find its way in eventually. Nicke’s in no rush. “What do you want to do today?”

Sasha shakes his head, licking his lips a little absently like he does when he can’t find an English word.

Nicke squeezes his wrist. “You want me to pick?” he says, and bends down to kiss Sasha as he nods, fast.

  


* * *

  


They have all day. Nicke knows what he wants to do.

  


* * *

  


It takes a good part of the day. It takes a long shower, where Nicke stays on his knees even though it hurts to give Sasha his first orgasm of the day. It takes half a bowl of Nadine’s weed, smoked mostly by Sasha as Nicke rubs his stomach and waits for him to get hard again.

It takes a towel laid down and most of the lube Nicke has on hand. It takes his tongue, first, and then two of his fingers, and then Nicke’s biggest toy, blue silicone he works in an inch at a time, careful.

“Faster,” Sasha says, head pillowed on his arms, rocking back. It’s not a request. Nicke takes a second. The perfect curves of his ass and waist. The way the muscles of his back shift under his skin, smooth. The strength of him.

“No,” Nicke says, and grins as Sasha makes a frustrated sound. “Don’t rush,” he says, and uses his free hand to dig fingers into Sasha’s thigh. “You’re doing good.”

Sasha makes a pleased sound but still rocks back, chasing it. “Changed my mind,” he says, breathy. “Don’t bother, just fuck me,” he says.

“Hmm,” Nicke says, kneading Sasha’s thigh a little while he works the toy in just a little more. He watches Sasha’s legs spread. “No.”

It’s not like Nicke isn’t hard. God. His dick is wet in his underwear, hard enough he can feel his heartbeat in his groin. But he can keep that at a distance, too, while he has other priorities.

His dick is fine for fucking. It feels great, and no partner has ever complained. But it has its limitations. It’s time-bound, and it’s imprecise.

Toys are good. Nicke twists it in a little deeper. A ragged noise comes out of Sasha’s mouth. Toys don’t run out, and they bring variety. Nicke likes to use the right tool for the job. For as long as it takes.

But he’ll always prefer using his hands.

It takes twenty more minutes and one more orgasm before Nicke is convinced Sasha’s ready, fucked-out and twitching a little as Nicke pulls the toy out of him. It takes a pillow under Sasha’s hips, rolled over and looking up at Nicke with half-closed eyes. It takes a black latex glove, taken from a box Nicke snuck home from Sebastian’s about two weeks into working there. Sue him. He doesn’t make a lot of money.

Nicke slides his left hand, still bare, over Sasha’s stomach and spread thighs. The room is filled with light, picking out the soft hair on Sasha’s stomach, on Nicke’s arms. It’s probably already noon by now. Maybe later. Nicke hasn’t looked at his phone in hours.

Nicke’s window is open, letting the room air out. Sounds of the city filter in. Muffled music from downstairs. Engines roaring and receding. There’s a whole day going on out there. Not in here.

“Ready?” Nicke asks, pressing down lightly on Sasha’s stomach just to see him squirm.

“Yeah,” Sasha says, lolling his head back. Nicke trusts him. Nicke trusts Sasha’s body. Sasha grins. “Hands not that big, Nicky, come on.”

Nicke grins and shakes his head. “I’ll ask you again later,” Nicke says.

He covers his gloved hand with lube, dripping onto the towel on the bed, and tapers his fingers together. And then he dips his head to suck the head of Sasha’s softening cock into his mouth.

“Blyat!” Sasha says, twisting into and away from Nicke’s mouth, and Nicke pushes the tips of his fingers inside of him.

It takes time. Nicke’s wrist cramps. Nicke’s neck cramps. Nicke’s not going anywhere.

He mouths absently at Sasha, caught somewhere in half-hard limbo. “Tell me if it hurts,” Nicke says, again, for the tenth time.

Sasha doesn’t open his eyes, head thrown back. From down here Nicke can see the softness of his throat. “Not hurt,” he says. “Just. A lot.”

Nicke pushes in just a hair more. With his hands, he can be careful. “Good thing my hands aren’t bigger,” he says, smiling into Sasha’s stomach.

Sasha laughs, and Nicke can feel— “Fuck,” Sasha says, laugh choking off as his muscles close down around Nicke, halfway inside. “Fuck, Nicky,” Sasha says.

“More?” Nicke says. They’re close. If they can get past his knuckles, past the widest point—

“More,” Sasha says, and Nicke can feel him, can feel him consciously relaxing. Nicke turns his face into the soft skin of Sasha’s thigh for a moment. The muscle underneath is strong and shaking. Nicke pushes forward.

As soon as his knuckles slip inside, Sasha’s body does the rest. This part is Nicke’s favorite, with anybody, and Sasha—he pulls Nicke in, irresistible, powerful like always.

“Holy shit, holy shit—” Sasha says, bucking just a little.

Nicke’s wrist-deep within ten seconds. He doesn’t have to do a thing.

Sasha’s eyes are flown open again, fixed first on the ceiling and then on Nicke’s face.

“OK?” Nicke says. Sasha nods, and then his eyes roll back in his head.

Nicke can feel him clenching down on his hand. God. Nicke thought he gave off heat on the outside. Being inside him like this—it’s like putting his fist in lava.

Nicke sits up on his knees, stroking at Sasha anywhere he can with his free hand. “You’re doing so good,” he says. It’s true. Most of the people Nicke has done this with had done it before. It’s—it’s a lot. He knows.

Sasha licks his lips. “Even just—” he says, and Nicke feels him clench down again, testing. Sasha whines. “Fuck, so much,” he says.

It is so much. Nicke wants, madly, to get further inside. Nicke wants to crawl inside him entirely. “Want me to move?” Nicke says quietly. “Or just fuck yourself on me?”

Sasha groans. Nicke can see the sweat on his chest and forehead. Nicke is sweating too. He should have taken his shirt off before they started. “Let me—” Sasha starts, and Nicke can feel feel him try to find a rhythm, shifting minutely against Nicke and squeezing down on him from the inside. Nicke holds as steady as he can. “Shit,” Sasha says, voice thready. He drops a hand to his dick, which is trying valiantly to get all the way back to being hard, and jerks it roughly. “Fuck, Nicke, try—just a little.”

Nicke flexes his hand, rolling his knuckles gently.

Sasha arches off the bed and howls.

Nicke gathers all his willpower, and stops.

He bets you could hear that on the street. He hopes you could hear it down the block.

Sasha presses his head back into the mattress, chest heaving. He swallows. “Again,” he says, and this time Nicke doesn’t have to stop.

Nicke will never love anything more than this, the way he can feel every tiny movement of his fingers and watch it ripple through Sasha. The way Sasha’s body swallows him up, hungry and possessive. The way Sasha seems to choke on the pleasure, thick and sweet and new. God, Nicke loves being gay.

“Too much,” Sasha says, and Nicke freezes for a moment until Sasha whines for him to move. “Too much to come,” he tries again, pulling on his mostly-hard cock. It looks flushed and tender, like the rest of him.

“No, it’s not,” Nicke says. Nicke would love to come. Nicke thinks he could come just from watching this, just from the friction of his hard dick trapped in his shorts.

“Can’t—” Sasha says, and Nicke pushes one of his thighs up a little, changing the angle just slightly.

“Yes, you can,” he says. “You’re gonna come all over my hand.”

Sasha groans, hand still moving. Nicke reaches out and grabs it, bringing Sasha’s hand to his mouth to lick at the palm messily before wrapping it back around Sasha’s dick.

“Because you like it, right?” Nicke continues, breathing heavy. Sasha nods, eyes squeezed shut. Nicke is lit up. Nicke feels full, too. “And you can take it.” Sasha’s breath hitches and his hand moves faster.

Nicke can feel him fluttering inside. “You can take all of it,” he says. “Doing so good, feels so good in you, Sasha,” he says, and then it feels like Sasha’s whole body crushes down on him as Sasha comes with a shout.

Nicke lets Sasha ride through it. He couldn’t move his hand if he tried, anyway. Sasha’s whole torso is tensed, a look of surprise on his face as he shivers and leaves one weak stripe on his stomach before collapsing.

Nicke licks it off him as he starts to ease his hand out.

“Fucking, shit—” Sasha says, a clumsy hand finding Nicke’s hair. Nicke hums and keeps working, tapering his fingers again to let them slide free easier. Sasha makes a wounded noise as he pulls out with a filthy sound. “Nicky, you have to—”

Nicke knows what he has to do. Nicke strips the glove off his hand, inside-out, and leaves it on the towel as he shoves his shorts down his thighs and spills the last of his lube into his hand.

It’s inelegant. He doesn’t give a fuck.

He doesn’t make a show of it. He just digs a hand into Sasha’s thigh and jerks off like he would if he were alone and it were a fucking emergency. Sasha’s too exhausted to do anything to help him, which is nearly enough to make Nicke come by itself.

Then Sasha gets a hand back in his hair and tugs, and it barely even hurts, but it—it’s enough.

Nicke chokes and bends and comes, pent-up and electric. Nobody’s been inside him, but he feels hollowed out. Nicke empties all of himself onto Sasha, his thighs and stomach and soft spent dick.

It takes a minute of gasping in air like a fish for Nicke to come back to himself.

“OK?” Sasha says, and that does bring Nicke back, looking down at Sasha incredulously.

“Me?” Nicke says. Sasha gives a little mouth-shrug, but his eyes are sparkling. He looks like ten different types of pornography. “I’m fucking—I’m great. You good? Was that OK?”

Sasha stretches a little, experimental. “I don’t even—yeah, was OK, Nicky,” he says, wincing and grinning at the same time. “Clean me up so I can sleep forever.” He rolls his neck back and forth. “Would help, but I think you broke both my legs.”

Nicke sighs theatrically and starts to ease his way out of bed.

“Wait,” Sasha says. “Come here.” Nicke’s still practically inside him, but. He knows what he means.

Sasha’s mouth is soft and wet and hot inside. Nicke will kiss him as long as he wants.

“OK,” Sasha says, finally. Nicke pulls back to look at him. He’s already halfway asleep. “You don’t have to go, but is gonna be pretty sticky pretty soon.”

Nicke drags himself to the bathroom to throw out the glove and get his other towel to ruin.

  


* * *

  


Sasha makes noises about going home sometime after dinner. Well. Nicke says dinner. It’s more toast, this time with eggs.

“Got lucky, no training today, but tomorrow—” Sasha says, swinging his legs off the bed. “I stay here, no chance.”

Nicke doesn’t look up from Instagram. “Good luck.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sasha stand, wobble, and slowly sit back down again.

“Shut up,” Sasha says. Nicke grins at his phone and double-taps an Andre selfie. “Get me my phone.”

Nicke fishes it out of last night’s pants. When he turns around, Sasha is horizontal again.

“Changed my mind,” Sasha says. “I talk, you text. You did this to me.”

Nicke gets back into bed with a little more bounce than necessary, snickering when Sasha elbows him. “Did what?” he says, pressing his face into Sasha’s hair. “What did I do to you.”

“Pulled my _brain_ out my _ass,_ ” Sasha says, flatly.

Nicke swipes the pattern to unlock Sasha’s phone. “OK, who am I texting that to,” he says, and based on the way Sasha rolls over and smothers him he can’t be feeling that worn out anyway.

  


* * *

  


Sasha doesn’t make it to training the next day— “First one I miss all summer, I get one,” — but Nicke does make it to work, picking up a shift for Anja in return.

The flowers are already at reception when he gets there.

Well. Not flowers, really. An orchid. A big one, too. Damn. Nicke had been joking.

_Sorry. You’re welcome. - Kuzma_

Andre’s face is unfathomable.

“You come to _my_ second-favorite club, and I don’t even _see_ you, and then this,” Andre says, gesturing expansively.

“Did you have a fun weekend?” Nicke says, touching the orchid as lightly as he can and squinting. He’s going to kill this thing incredibly quickly.

“I did!” Andre says brightly, switching gears. “I did see Tom at the club, he’s very nice. Needs to relax a little on the dancefloor, though.” Nicke looks up in time to see Andre pout just slightly.

“No one should relax around you,” Nicke says, picking up the pot and heading down to his room.

“Thank you!” Andre says. Nicke can hear him clattering down the stairs after him. “What about you? How was your weekend?”

A good question. “Busy,” Nicke says. He sets the orchid on the counter in his room and slings off his backpack. Saturday morning feels like a million years ago. “Oh, somebody tried to poach me, so stay on your toes.”

Andre flops down in Nicke’s chair. “Another shop?” he says, frowning.

Nicke shakes his head. “Other job,” he says, pulling his kit out from under the sink and starting his sterilization routine. He’ll do it again for any individual needles he actually uses today, but it always settles him to know he’s starting clean. “Boss trying to sneak me into FC Köln.” He looks over at Andre. He’s still frowning. “Relax, I’m not going to do it,” he says.

“Why not?” Andre says. Nicke furrows his brow at the 12-gauge he’s cleaning. “I thought you liked the football stuff.”

The football stuff. God help him. “You so eager to get rid of me?” Nicke says, raising his eyebrows. “Your favorite professional colleague?”

“I mean,” Andre says, spinning, “I’d be pissed if you went to a different shop.” He drifts slowly to a shop. “Don’t ever do that. I’ll kill you. But this sounds cool.”

Nicke snorts. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. “‘Andre thinks it’s cool.’ Good career planning.”

Andre just grins up at him sunnily. “I’ll miss you when you’re famous. Except I won’t, because you’ll never escape me, and you’ll buy all the drinks forever.”

“Deal,” Nicke says, because he’s found the easiest option with Andre is sometimes just to give up.

Andre gives the chair a good spin one more time. “It’d be cool,” he says again. “To see you do something that makes you happy.”

Nicke sterilizes his last needle and goes to wash his hands, water as hot as he can stand. “You don’t think I’m happy here with you?”

Andre gives him a look so withering and disdainful Nicke’s honestly a little bit proud.

  


* * *

  


Sasha does manage to get out of bed eventually, and he brings Nicke dinner again. Thai, this time, and he only makes fun of Nicke a little bit for ordering the mildest thing on the menu.

“You ever have Russian food?” he says, handing over Nicke’s carton of pineapple fried rice. “I think you would like pelmeni. You like, what is it...beige.”

Nicke rolls his eyes and leans back on the bench while digging in with his plastic fork. He likes this bench. It’s a good one. Nice shade. “You find a restaurant, I’ll come with you,” he says. “But I’ll make you eat Swedish food.”

“Been to IKEA before,” Sasha says, and if he weren’t holding a cup of soup like a madman Nicke would sock him in the arm.

“Bullshit,” Nicke says. “You do not have IKEA furniture.” If he does, Nicke will kill him.

Sasha grins. “No,” he says. “But rookies do. They are so bad at making it, Nicky, you wouldn’t believe. What do they need bookshelves for, anyway? Don’t fucking read,” he says, and by now Nicke is bent double over his knees laughing.

After he recovers, they spend five minutes wolfing their food down in silence, Sasha’s foot just tapping lightly against Nicke’s to no particular rhythm.

Nicke takes a pause to digest, stretching his feet out in front of him. “Evgeny sent me flowers,” he says. He can’t remember any of the nicknames. “Well. A flower.”

Sasha slurps his soup. “Not too romantic, I hope.”

Nicke shakes his head and grins. “He actually got the orchid. I was joking when I told you that, you know.”

“You want to get most expensive plant from rich dummy,” Sasha says, eyes wicked, and slurps his soup again.

Nicke inclines a nod. “Joke’s on me. Now I am going to kill a very expensive plant.”

Sasha frowns into the soup. Nicke wants to take a picture of his giant hands holding the little takeout container and his ancient face glowering over it. “Why kill it?”

Nicke picks at his rice with his fork. “Orchids are hard,” he says. “Very picky. Have to treat them gentle every day, track their water and sun. I can’t take care of something like that.”

Sasha laughs and takes a suspiciously long drink of soup.

“What,” Nicke says.

Sasha shrugs and looks over. “You pretty picky,” he says. “And you do a pretty good job taking care of you all the time.”

Oh.

Nicke shovels a forkful of rice into his mouth to give himself time to think.

He swallows it down after a moment. “I’m not sure that’s true,” he says, squinting into the angled evening sun. “But, point taken.”

Sasha shifts over slightly and bumps their knees together. “You will be great flower papa,” he says. “Or maybe you can sell, that would be pretty funny too,” he says, and Nicke snorts. “Oh, makes me remember. Have you been to gardens? Are they good?”

Nicke chews on some more rice. “Gardens?” he says, mouth mostly full.

“Botanical,” Sasha says, precise in a way that means the word is new. “Big fancy gardens. You ever go?”

Nicke swallows. “They have those here?”

Sasha rolls his eyes. “Yeah, is like, second thing when you google _things to do in Köln_.”

Nicke nudges his knee. “You googling dates now? Out of ideas?”

Sasha grins toothily at him. “Lotta free time today, gotta do something,” he says. “And who says is a date? Maybe I wanna go by myself. Maybe I take Zhenya, he such a flower guy now.” He drains the last of the soup, tipping the container up over his face. “But definitely want to see before I go home.”

Botanical gardens. Huh. Who knew. In fairness, Nicke has never googled _things to do in_ anywhere. “Well,” he says, scraping the bottom of his container with his fork. “Ask if they take rescue plants.”

  


* * *

  


Sasha heads back to the hotel for the night, which makes perfect sense right up until the point that Nicke closes his bedroom door and realizes it’s the first time he’s been alone—really alone with himself—since Saturday.

And tomorrow is a morning with the kids. And Jurgen.

At least Sasha washed and dried his sheets while Nicke was out. Nicke texts him a thank you, steadfastly ignores his muted family thread, and settles in for a long night.

  


* * *

  


Son of a bitch. He left the orchid at Sebastian’s.

  


* * *

  


Nicke always gets to the field in the morning with at least a ten minute buffer—German public transit has always been precisely on time so far, but he’s never quite willing to risk it—and he’s never had occasion to regret it until he runs into Jurgen in the equipment shed with no plausible distraction and absolutely no plan.

“Just getting...” he scans the shelves in front of him, “...cones.” He slides two stacks into his arms. It should have occurred to him before now to figure out what he was actually going to say to the man.

“Oh, do you have an idea for a warm-up drill?” Jurgen says, looking up from a clipboard.

Nicke considers his options. “Yes.”

Jurgen nods consideringly. “Well, go ahead and set it up,” he says. Nicke is already halfway out the door when he continues, “Actually, Nicky, why don’t you run the first half? I’ve got inventory to finish. I can take over when it’s time for scrimmages.”

Well, at least this is a different problem. And one Nicke knows how to solve.

“Coach Nicky! Tell Lucas to stop saying Messi is his favorite player! Messi is _my_ favorite player!”

He briefly considers solving it by having the kids run laps until Jurgen is done.

Instead he sets up a dribbling drill where the kids race each other around a circle of cones as fast as they can, which is exactly the same as running laps except they think it’s fun instead of complaining.

Then a shooting drill that Katrin renders nearly moot by saving almost every shot, then a passing drill that mildly devolves into a form of dodgeball that Nicke gets a little invested in, then a reworked passing drill that Nicke thinks would have worked better if it hadn’t gotten derailed by two different fights over team names.

The team that had fought over which Pokémon to be named after eventually claims victory, and Nicke whistles for a water break even though it’s a few minutes early. Fuck it. _He_ needs a break.

“My turn?” Jurgen says behind him, and Nicke certainly does not startle and whip around.

“If the inventory is finished,” Nicke says. He’s beat from having to yell for nearly ninety minutes, but he’s still got some half-baked ideas for new drills they could go through. One of them involves a modified form of William Tell.

Jurgen nods. “Finished a little while ago. Didn’t want to interrupt.”

Nicke drains half his water bottle. “They’re all yours,” he says.

Jurgen nods again, rocking on the balls of his feet, eyes on the empty-for-now pitch. “Have you thought any more about the opportunity I mentioned?”

Nicke swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah,” he lies. “I have.”

Jurgen slides him a look. “And?”

  


* * *

  


They’re not even all the way in the fish elevator before Nicke blurts it out. “I did something fucking stupid today,” he says.

Sasha raises his eyebrows at him. “Normal stupid, or, like...” he trails off. _Sex in a club bathroom stupid?_ Nicke half-wants to supply. “Or stupid-stupid,” Sasha finishes.

“I told my boss I’d apply for the fucking FC Köln job,” Nicke says, and Sasha’s face splits into a grin as the elevator dings.

“Oh no,” he says, gleeful. Nicke rolls his eyes and follows him down the hall.

In Sasha’s suite, Nicke drops his bag on the couch and drops his body face-down on Sasha’s bed with a _whump_. He hears Sasha laugh behind him and pad over. When he feels the weight on the bed shift, he has time to take in one quick breath before he gets crushed, warm and heavy, by Sasha’s whole body blanketed over his.

“Ugh,” Nicke says, shifting a leg out so they fit together a little better.

“What you want?” Sasha says, rumbling at Nicke’s shoulder. “Want to yell about it? Want sex?”

It’s stupid that the soft animal crush of Sasha on top of him is actually helping a little. “What did you do today?” Nicke asks. He forgets to ask, sometimes.

Sasha groans, and Nicke smiles at the way it travels through him before Sasha finally rolls off. “Train,” he says, making a face up at the ceiling when Nicke looks over. “I hate running.”

Nicke probably would too if he had to carry around that much body. “What else?”

Sasha makes another face, then rolls back over again and bites at Nicke’s shoulder. “Call with publicist,” he says, rubbing his chin against the indent in Nicke’s t-shirt. Nicke can’t see his face. “Schedule for when I go back to Washington. Got a lotta shit to do.”

“Good shit?” Nicke says. “Bad shit?” He doesn’t really want a full vision of what the batshit part of Sasha’s life is like, but he’ll take the general outlines.

Sasha shrugs against him. “Just shit,” he says. “Some OK, some suck.” Nicke props himself up on his elbows to finally get a look at his face. Sasha scowls. “Hate fucking reporters.”

Nicke grins at him. “You can tell them all about the, uh, experimental conditioning methods you tried this summer—” and then Sasha pokes him hard in the side and Nicke goes down giggling.

“Demon,” Sasha says. “My numbers not so good this season, gonna blame it all on Swedish spy who broke my dick.”

“Sounds very sexy,” Nicke says. They lie there in silence for a minute, breathing. Nicke is glad he doesn’t have numbers that reporters ask him about. He wishes Sasha didn’t have to deal with that. He wishes—

He chooses a new thought. “Are you ever going to show me the pools?” he says. He can feel Sasha grinning into his shoulder. “Or were you lying about those?”

  


* * *

  


Nicke floats on his back and tries to remember the last time he was in a pool. There was the youth hostel he stayed in for a few days in Antwerp—has it really been that long? That one definitely had not had a hot tub with bullshit fake-grotto rocks by it. Nor any senior citizens doing very gentle water aerobics.

And before that, what? Nicke’s school had had a pool, but he hadn’t been on the swim team.

It’s nice to float. The weightlessness of it. He’d suggested the pool thinking maybe he could wear himself out by swimming endless laps or distract himself by challenging Sasha to a race or something, but now that he’s here he just wants to let the water hold him up. There’s some dumbass part of Nicke’s brain that wants to try to fall asleep.

Then he splutters and half-sinks as Sasha bumps into him.

Sasha loops an arm around his waist as Nicke blinks the water out of his eyes. “You think old people will notice if I try to get you off in the hot tub?”

Nicke snorts and rubs a hand through Sasha’s plastered-down hair so it stands up in spikes. He’s still got his necklaces on. “Think the lifeguard is more your problem, there.”

Sasha narrows his eyes and glances over. “Shit,” he says, and Nicke laughs. “You think I can charge bribe to my room?”

  


* * *

  


“Explain something to me,” Sasha says later, after chlorine kisses and room service. He’s got his hand in Nicke’s hair and some football match on the television.

“Mm,” Nicke says after a moment. It’s not that late, but he’s halfway to nodding off. His body is tired and his brain wants to turn off.

He assumes he used to go other places and do other things when he felt this way.

“You like kids, yes?” Sasha says. His fingers keep running over Nicke’s still-damp scalp. Nicke stays very still.

“Yes,” Nicke says after a moment. “Why, do you want some? I can’t help you.”

Sasha tugs on his hair a little. “Want lots. So many.” He doesn’t say anything else. Just waits.

Nicke sighs and shifts on the bed. “They’re good. Crazy, but in a way that makes sense to me.” He grins and pushes forward before he can think better of it. “Kind of like you.”

“So nice,” Sasha says, crushing Nicke into his side. Nicke is content to rest there, half-watching the match from the bed, but Sasha picks the thread up again. “So kids are good. But you don’t want new kid job?”

“I don’t—” Nicke starts, and then sighs. “Does it matter?”

“It matter if it matters?” Sasha says, only mocking a little bit. “You never gonna fuck me again if I ask questions?”

Nicke’s done worse. “It’s just not the sort of thing that I do.”

Nicke can _hear_ Sasha making a face. “What sort of thing?”

Somebody onscreen scores a goal. Nicke thinks these are Bundesliga teams, but he’s not sure. He hears Kris’s voice in his head say: _real job_. How do you explain _real job_ to Alexander Ovechkin? “This sort of thing.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.” And nobody can make him. Nicke takes pride in that. What else is left?

“You don’t want to? Or just don’t?” Sasha’s voice isn’t angry. Nicke fists a hand hard in the bedsheets.

“Sasha,” he says. “Stop.”

Sasha’s silent for a moment. The game goes to halftime. Sasha’s fingers keep moving in Nicke’s hair. “OK,” he says, finally.

Nicke falls asleep to the sound of the second half.

  


* * *

  


The downside, of course, is that Nicke wakes up in the middle of the night.

His phone’s plugged in on the other side of the room, but the hotel still has a bedside alarm clock, numbers red and blocky and smug. 04:12. Fuck off.

He glares at the ceiling with his arms crossed for three minutes before rolling out of bed. Sasha makes a soft noise, but he doesn’t stir as Nicke pulls on a pair of shorts.

The air out on the balcony is nice and cool this time of night. Morning? Nicke would like to still get some more sleep, so he’ll go with night.

The two lounge chairs are still nestled together. Nicke flops down in the farthest one.

It’s actually lighter out here than it is inside—not from the sun, which is still a ways away from rising, but just the city light pollution. Always-on fluorescents in the tall neighboring buildings; streetlights, though Nicke doesn’t see anyone out walking; headlights on cars and buses that _are_ on the move. God. Nicke’s glad he’s not on a bus before five in the morning.

What’s the worst bus ride he’s ever had in his life? He looks up at the gray-purple-brown night sky and tabulates.

There’d been the time he’d bailed on a hook-up in Paris and had jumped on the first bus he could find, still half-high and with no idea of where he was going. Or the fucking awful bus he’d taken every morning for that shitty six-week stretch in Amsterdam where he’d been sleeping on a couch that was ninety minutes away from the shop where he’d been getting paid under the table. The two-hour bus he’d taken to the Arlanda airport from Gävle when he was eighteen had been early in the morning, but that ride hadn’t been so bad, even if he had thrown up in the tiny bathroom.

No. Worst had definitely been the overnight from Nice to Köln. Packing up his life in Paris and heading south for a week on the beach in Nice had been, well, nice, and in theory a twelve-hour bus ride shouldn’t be so bad if you’re doing it overnight. But Nicke had forgotten what it means to be tall on a bus. He hadn’t slept a wink the whole ride, fidgeting and hungry and stretched thin. It had not been an auspicious way to arrive in his new city.

Nowhere to go but up, in fairness.

The balcony door slides open with a soft sound. Sasha, naked, of course, with a bleary look on his face and a glass of water in his hand.

“You good?” he says, voice rough.

“I’m OK,” Nicke says, approximating. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Sasha nods. “OK if I sit?” he asks. “Or are you having special moment?”

Nicke grins and flaps a hand at the empty chair.

Sasha settles in, the chair creaking a little under his weight, and sets the glass on the concrete between them. Nicke picks it up and takes a sip before putting it back down.

“What’s the worst bus ride you’ve ever been on?” he asks. His voice isn’t much better off than Sasha’s. It occurs to him that Sasha may not have taken a lot of bad buses, but if that’s the case he’d like to know that, too.

Sasha makes a gruff noise and then is silent for a minute. Nicke waits. A car alarm goes off a few blocks away and then goes quiet.

“I was fourteen,” Sasha says, finally, which makes sense, because if Sasha ever did take bad buses it wouldn’t have been in the past ten years. “Team has a game a few hours away from Moscow. I travel there with the whole team, but usually my mama or papa would come watch, then drive home with me so we could talk about the game.” He shrugs. “This time, mama thinks papa is doing it, papa thinks mama is doing it, both of them are busy. Had to happen once, yes?” he says. “So I find a bus that will take me back. And I have just enough money, so not too bad. But we lose the game,” he says. His fingers drum on the armrest of the chair. Nicke laces his fingers together in his lap to keep his hands where they are. “So I sit on the bus for three hours in my sweaty t-shirt,” Sasha continues. “Thinking about how we lose, and how I am by myself, and how Seryozha should be there to come get me and take me to McDonald’s.” Nicke looks over, and Sasha is smiling as he looks out at the city. “Cry so much on that bus,” he says. “Old lady give me sweets, which makes it worse, of course.”

“What a monster,” Nicke says, because he’s not sure what else to say. Then: “Sorry.”

Sasha makes a face and shrugs. “Don’t tell you so you have to be sorry. Just tell you.” Nicke’s not sure he understands the difference, but he nods anyway. In Nicke’s experience, telling usually comes with a string attached.

“Sorry if I woke you up,” he says after a moment. Sasha shakes his head.

“No,” he says, scratching at his stomach. Nicke doesn’t know anybody who seems so natural naked. “Don’t sleep so good either. Been waking up nights sometimes.” He looks over at Nicke and grins toothily in the semi-dark. “You cute when you sleep. Drool.”

Nicke restrains the instinct to deny it. “Pervert,” he says, and Sasha laughs. “You’re not sleeping well?” he asks, despite himself.

Sasha sits in silence moment longer. Nicke takes a second to enjoy it. He is glad to have found someone it is so easy to sit with, even if he will be gone soon.

“I can tell you something else?” Sasha says. Nicke smiles a little and nods once. “Just to tell you? Just because I want to?”

“I’ll allow it,” Nicke says, and doesn’t try to fool himself that his tone totally covers the twist in his stomach.

“You know why I like you?” Sasha says, looking at Nicke out of the corner of his eye. Nicke could toss something back. _Oh my gosh, you like me? I couldn’t tell._ But he doesn’t. “Because you don’t give a fuck about what I do.”

Nicke half-snorts, half-winces. “Seriously,” Sasha says.

Nicke steeples his fingers above his chest. “I give a fuck a little bit,” he says. He’s gotta get better about asking about Sasha’s day, even if it’s a moot point by now.

Sasha waves a hand at him. “I think you give a fuck about me a little bit,” he says, and his eyes are laughing enough that Nicke doesn’t worry too much. “You are nice, don’t think I forget. But I think if I tell you, oh, Nicky, I’m going to ask for trade to Edmonton, doesn’t matter to you.”

“Oh,” Nicke says. “No.” He doesn’t give a fuck about that.

“No,” Sasha says, smiling. He sticks a leg out and kicks Nicke lightly in the calf. “You are going to be you, no matter what I do. It’s nice.”

Nicke lolls his head back and watches the blinking lights of a plane flying overhead. “Not everybody thinks it’s nice.”

“Like I say, is why I like you,” Sasha says.

Nicke takes a moment to think about that. Usually when people tell him why they like him, it involves a compliment. And usually they’re wrong.

“I know I can’t make you happy,” Sasha says, voice low. Nicke closes his eyes. “Want to, but can’t. Is OK. Can’t make anybody happy.” He pauses, and Nicke opens his eyes to look over at him. There’s a soft breeze coming off the river. It’s moving through his hair. “You the only one, doesn’t expect me to,” Sasha says, corner of his mouth turned up. “So for me, that’s nice.”

Nicke, because he has lost his mind somewhere along the way, smiles. “That’s a fucked up thing to say,” he says, quietly, joyfully.

“Yeah, it is,” Sasha says, reaching down to pick up the water glass and drain it. “You coming back to bed?”

  


* * *

  


Nicke falls asleep for the second time with his forehead pressed in between Sasha’s shoulder blades.

  


* * *

  


The second time Nicke wakes up, Sasha is asleep again. Fuck. There really is drool on Nicke’s pillow. Son of a bitch.

Nicke sits on the side of the bed for about ten minutes, legs hanging over the side and toes flexing on the carpet as he stares out the still-open balcony door. You could grow plants out there, maybe, if you stayed long enough.

Well. Nothing else for it, then. He rubs at his eyes and fumbles to the kitchenette to make two cups of coffee.

He walks around the bed to set Sasha’s cup down on his bedside table, then walks back around to his side to reclaim his empty spot.

Sasha twitches familiarly as Nicke’s weight shifts the bed. Nicke takes a sip of coffee. How can this be familiar? Weeks. It’s been weeks. If he stayed, how long would it take for coffee in bed to stop working as an apology?

Sasha greets the day with a friendly growl. “I have to get up?” he asks, eyes still closed.

“How the hell should I know?” Nicke says, and Sasha smiles into the pillow. He slits an eye open and narrows it when he sees the coffee in Nicke’s hand. He rolls over and looks at his bedside table.

“So good to me,” he says, shifting up into a sitting position and lifting the cup to his lips. Nicke waits until he’s taken two full sips before speaks.

“I can tell you something,” he says. God, it’s harder when it’s light out, bright on hotel-white sheets. Sasha had made this look easy in the dark.

Sasha leans back against the headboard, both hands on his cup of coffee, and waits.

“I’m not—” Nicke starts, and then stops. Tries again. “I was not what my parents wanted,” he says carefully. “They did not say that, but they didn’t have to. I wasn’t what they wanted, and—” He narrows his eyes and stares down into his cup. “And they would not let me try to be it.” Now for the worst bit. “I would have. I would have tried. But they didn’t let me.” He looks over, finally, at Sasha, whose face hasn’t changed. “And they never forgave me for it, I don’t think.”

Sasha nods thoughtfully, and then takes a long drink of his coffee. Nicke does the same. He hasn’t smoked in a long time. It’s still good to have something to do with your hands.

“And your parents would like this job,” Sasha says, finally, and it is the relief, perversely, that clamps a hand around Nicke’s throat.

“They would,” he grits out. He takes another sip. “They would be proud of me.”

Sasha nods again. He tips his head back and stares at the ceiling for a moment before flicking his eyes over to Nicke’s. “That’s fucked up,” he says.

Nicke cracks a grin. “I know, right?” It is fucked up. The whole fucking thing. His whole fucking thing. He sets his coffee cup down on the matching table on his side of the bed. “And the fucking baby—” he says, running both hands down his face.

“You love babies,” Sasha points out, sounding pleased. “Baby who is wanted, always good news.”

“I know,” Nicke says, leaning back against the headboard. “I’m just—”

“Fucked up about it?” Sasha says.

Nicke lets out a breath. “Yes.” If the baby is wanted. If the baby is not wanted, once it is not a baby anymore. If Nicke is going to be this fucked up any time anything in his family moves enough to lift the settled dust. “I know it’s not, but—” he swallows. “What if everything happens again?” What if everything happens forever?

“Well,” Sasha says. “One thing is different. If that helps.”

Nicke looks over at him and waits. Sasha looks tired, still, but not unhappy. He is looking at Nicke the same way always does. The same way he does across the football pitch and the hotel lobby and bar tables and Nicke’s room at Sebastian’s.

“Did you have,” Sasha says, and then gestures at all of Nicke. “Big gay uncle?” Nicke feels a dam break in his throat. He starts to laugh silently, and once he starts he can’t stop. “Huge scary goth uncle with needles who lives in another country?” Sasha says, and Nicke tips into his shoulder, shaking with laughter. “No big mean gay crow runaway uncle? No?”

Nicke tries to catch his breath. “Well, my uncle Olle is a Liverpool fan,” he says.

“Close,” Sasha says, and Nicke starts wheezing again. “But not so good.”

“No,” Nicke says. He can feel wetness clumping his eyelashes together. “They do love to suffer, though.”

“I don’t understand your football jokes, but I’m sure they are very funny,” Sasha says, lifting his arm and wrapping it around Nicke’s shoulders. Fuck, but he’s warm. “You didn’t have a you.”

Nicke focuses on his breathing. In. Out.

No. No, he didn’t. “I don’t know how much I can do.”

He feels Sasha shrug. “Not everything. But you are here, and you weren’t before, so. You know is not exactly the same.”

“I am,” Nicke says. It’s never been a comfort before, but he’ll take it.

He sits up a little under Sasha’s arm—God, it’s like a sleeping boa constrictor—and picks his coffee back up. It’s still warm in his hands.

“You say they never forgive,” Sasha says, and Nicke takes a sip to buy himself time. “Did you?”

Nicke swallows. “Forgive them?” he says. Fair question. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. “Yes and no.”

“I meant you,” Sasha says. Nicke rests the cup in his lap. “You say they never forgive you. Did you?”

That is a new one. Nicke taps his fingers on the smooth ceramic and feels the weight of Sasha’s arm tethering him. “I don’t think I’ve gotten that far,” he says.

So much running. All of it needed. Perhaps once he gets far enough he’ll be able to turn around to catch his breath and look behind.

“OK,” Sasha says. He reaches out and clicks their nearly-empty cups together, a quiet cheers. “You want room service?”

  


* * *

  


Sasha has to meet up with his trainers, which leaves Nicke with a few hours to kill between when he gets home and when he has to be at Sebastian’s. He could catch up sleep. He could try to dig up his old CV on his laptop and start updating it. He could call his mother.

He goes for a run.

His ankles still feel good. Sweat from the August sun runs down his back and sticks his shirt to the small of his back. His head hurts a little from a lack of sleep. His chest feels cored out from the inside, airy and exposed.

His heartbeats are loud in his own ears, timed unevenly with the slap of his feet against the concrete river walk.

Nicke normally turns around after five kilometres. He keeps running.

He keeps moving up the Rhine, north, north. He runs farther north than the cathedral, whose spires he can just see peeking over the buildings to his left. He runs farther north than the street that leads to Sasha’s hotel, nestled in the tourist district. He runs until the river starts curving off to the east.

He runs until he sees a sign that says Kölner Zoo, pointing off to the west. Köln has a zoo? And then the sign below it: Flora and Botanischer Garten.

Nicke’s German is only OK. He still can put that together.

Turns out it’s free. Nicke half-expects to be turned away at the white metal gates, sweaty and indelicate, but the elderly woman sitting there in a folding chair just waves him through the open side door with a smile. Nicke smiles back. Probably the scariest thing he could have done, but too late now.

Nicke’s never been to a botanical garden before, but it’s about what he would have guessed. A long lawn leads up to a building that looks like it was designed to be impressive. Flower beds are arranged on the lawn in perfect symmetrical patterns. Red triangles and yellow ovals and white stripes that surround an arcing fountain and make Nicke’s eyes unfocus.

It’s a stunning piece of work. It smells pretty nice. Nicke walks slowly down one of the twinned paths along the lawn, gravel crunching under his running shoes.

He peers at the small signs in front of each bed as he goes, but they’re all in German. He only knows a handful of plant names in English, and he doesn’t know enough to recognize any flower by sight.

His mother would know.

He pauses in front of a thick carpet of tiny yellow flowers, pruned into a perfect circle. He takes a picture.

The paths continue around either side of the impressive-looking building. Nicke follows one, slipping into shade. There had been small ornamental trees lining the path out front. These ones are bigger.

Maybe the flower beds out back will be an exact mirror of the front. Or a cool-toned inverse, sharp shapes made of blues and purples and blacks.

Nicke rounds the corner of the building, which he thinks might just be a gigantic gift shop. He lifts his eyes to examine the second lawn.

There isn’t a lawn.

The pond, first, is what attracts his attention. Its mirror surface is half-covered with lily pads, real lily pads, which Nicke had slightly assumed were a myth. There’s a bridge over it, made of wood and painted red like the cover of a book for kids. The far side is thick with trees.

To his left, a brick path leading through a twenty-foot-tall tunnel of wrought iron and ivy that doesn’t seem to end. To the right, what looks to be a field carefully subdivided into squares of different wildflowers, heavy with bees Nicke can hear from here. At the far end, a small hill topped with a whip-thin and gnarled tree whose bark is a red-brown Nicke has never seen before.

And beyond all of it, in every direction but behind him, trees. Trees with needles and trees with leaves and trees with flowers. Nicke didn’t know gardens could be for trees.

The front lawn had smelled nice, the definition of floral. Nicke takes a deep breath, filling his chest. The air here is thick and slow, weighed down with life. Nicke sneezes and smiles.

There is a little bit of a lawn, in fairness. Just a patch before different paths split off into wildness. There’s a rabbit sitting on it, staring at Nicke.

“What?” Nicke says, looking back. The rabbit cleans its ears and then hops slowly toward the wildflowers, unbothered.

There’s a sign with a map on it, which Nicke glances at only long enough to confirm that this place is huge. He’ll have to come back.

He walks to the little bridge first.

He knows what he looks like, a blond and black hole punched in the riotous color around him. It’s OK. He’s not vain enough to think he can suck the life out of this place.

The bridge creaks a little as he climbs it. He stops at the apex and leans against the railing, looking down into the water.

There are fucking fish in there. “What the fuck,” he says quietly. He looks at the edge of the pond. There’s a goddamn turtle. “What the _fuck._ ”

  


* * *

  


Nicke takes a bus back to his apartment. He stayed too long to be able to run back and get to Sebastian’s on time.

On the bus, he scrolls through the pictures he took. Half of them are blurry. He sends Sasha a selfie he took with a deer.

_is this what gardens are normally like? i’m new_

  


* * *

  


He brings his laptop with him on his shift. He spends three different ten-minute lulls between appointments scowling at his CV before he finally emails it to Andre.

_help_

He can hear Andre’s gleeful noise from his room.

  


* * *

  


Nicke doesn’t think he can claim his title at Sebastian’s is _Chief Imagination Rockstar_ , but Andre is very adamant, and Nicke doesn’t actually know a single person with a real job to ask. He’ll sleep on it.

  


* * *

  


_u go without me????_

_was an accident_  
_good news is i already figured out which fish are the best ones. i can introduce you_  
_you’re welcome_

_did u see any plants ? )))))_

_i bought an orchid book_

  


* * *

  


Nicke rides home from Sebastian’s with his computer in his backpack and the orchid in his lap. The yellow petals brush against his chin when the tram stops and starts. He keeps both hands on the pot the whole way home.

In his room, he balances the flowerpot carefully on his windowsill before kicking his shoes off and sitting on the bed. The book is resting on the floor by his bed where he left it.

“All right,” Nicke mutters as he runs his finger down the table of contents. “How do I keep you alive?”

He keeps his German dictionary app open on his phone and works his way through.

_You must first understand what kind of orchid you have in order to care for it properly._

Nicke flips back and forth through pictures of different types of orchids, squinting at the one on his windowsill and counting petals.

“You’re a moth, eh?” Nicke folds the corner down for the instructions on moth orchids. “Weird fucking moth.”

 _First-time owners of moth orchids often harm them by_ —Nicke has to pause to work out the component parts of the word— _over-watering. Orchids require much less water than you might think._

“OK,” Nicke says, nodding at the flower. He’s not going to give it a name. It’s bad enough that he’s talking to it. “I believe you.”

The pot it came in seems like it will work, so that’s good. Light might be an issue, though. _Moth orchids thrive in_ —a pause to check the dictionary— _diffused sunlight, not direct_. Nicke grimaces. The windowsill is the only flat surface in the room, besides the floor.

“I’ll figure something out,” he mumbles toward the window, closing the book.

  


* * *

  


Andre calls him the next day, which is unusual. Andre’s usually more of a texter. Or an Instagram DM-er.

Nicke answers. “What’s wrong?” he says. A shift is starting soon, but Nicke’s not scheduled. He keeps ambling through the aisles of the thrift store. He usually just comes here to replace workout clothes that he wears out, but he’s pretty sure they’ve got other stuff toward the back.

“Can you come in?” Andre says. Nicke grunts. “Not the whole time, but somebody asked for you specifically. Anja doesn’t mind if you use the room for a bit.”

“What, today?” Nicke says. He gets through the outerwear racks and emerges into a haphazard selection of furniture. Perfect. “No. Tell them to make an appointment.” He’s surprised Andre even called him.

Andre sighs. “It’s Braden. The beard guy.” Ah. Shit. Of course. Nicke squats down to examine a waist-high cabinet that might work. It’s wobbly, one leg shorter than the others. “I mean, if you want to let somebody else poke around in his mouth—”

“Shut up,” Nicke says. “He can’t come in another day?” He knows Sasha’s heading home in a week. He drums his fingers on a white metal end-table. He thinks it might be meant to be patio furniture, but the height is about right.

“I can call him and ask,” Andre says, sounding pleased at the prospect. “But his voicemail sounded pretty desperate. I think he forgot about the follow-up.”

So did Nicke. “When did he want to come in?” The sticker on the end-table says it’s five Euros. He switches his phone to his left hand and picks up the table with his right, testing its weight. This’ll do.

“Thank you, Nicke,” Andre croons. “1500, please. I’ll let him know.”

“You owe me,” Nicke says.

“No I don’t,” Andre chirps as he hangs up.

Nicke puts the end table next to his bed, near the window but not quite in direct sun. He snaps a picture of the orchid sitting on it and posts it to his Instagram.

_haven’t killed it so far. anybody have any advice?_

  


* * *

  


Anja takes an extra-long break at 1445, and Nicke sets up quickly in the room. He pulls a couple different replacement options from the case.

“I can help,” Andre says, sprawled half across the jewelry case as if he isn’t entirely in Nicke’s way. “I have great taste.”

“You don’t have a single piercing, tourist,” Nicke says, ignoring him as he takes a tray of threaded barbells back to the room.

He pulls his phone out as he waits.

_your goalie is coming to see me today_

_be gentle hahaha we need him))))_

1500 comes and goes with no buzz from Andre.

Nicke gives it another ten minutes before he wanders back out to reception. Anja’s going to need her room back before long.

He hears Andre’s voice as he jogs up the stairs.

“—it would look so cool, I just really think it fits with your whole vibe.” Goddammit.

“You think so?” Braden says. He’s standing over the jewelry case with Andre, examining some gold and turquoise monstrosity in his hand. Nicke does his best to wordlessly inform Andre that he’s going to murder him.

Andre looks pleased with himself, so he must not have done that good of a job. “Nicke, don’t you think this would look _so_ great on Braden?”

“Why don’t you come back and we can try it out?” Nicke says, keeping his customer service voice on. If Braden buys it, he buys it. Andre’s high if he thinks he’s getting a whiff of that commission.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Braden says as he follows Nicke down the stairs and into his room.

“No problem,” Nicke says, grabbing a fresh pair of gloves. “This should be fast, unless anything’s been bothering you.”

Braden hops up on the bench and a five-week-old echo goes through Nicke’s brain. “Nope, seems fine so far,” Braden says. “A little sore the first few days, but I’ve gotten used to it now.”

Nicke walks over. “Mind if I take a look?”

Braden smiles, and Nicke can’t help but smile back. “Should I say _ah?_ ”

“If that does it for you,” Nicke shrugs, and Braden laughs before he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue.

Nicke manipulates it carefully, making sure the wound has healed. It looks good—Nicke takes a moment for professional smugness—and the swelling has gone down enough that the original jewelry is a little too big.

“Good job with the aftercare,” Nicke says, letting him go. “We just need to swap out for something smaller so you don’t mess up your teeth.” He walks back to the counter where he put the jewelry. “The barbells unscrew, so we can just put in a smaller post if you want, or you can look at something new.”

Braden has hopped off the bench and followed him, peering over Nicke’s shoulder at the shiny objects. “I mean, I might as well...”

Braden buys six tongue rings, including the turquoise nightmare. Nicke eyes the leather bracelets Braden is wearing. Maybe Andre has a point.

“You want to practice swapping one out now to make sure?” Nicke asks, and Braden nods. He’s hesitant, but he’s got good hands, and in about thirty seconds he’s traded the basic silver barbell for a slimmer pink and iridescent version. “Nice,” Nicke says. “Brandi should be very pleased.”

Braden flushes and laughs. “Yeah, thanks for the help.”

It has truly been Nicke’s pleasure. “Thanks for choosing Sebastian’s,” he says, mock-formal, and Braden laughs again.

“‘Choose,’ yeah, good one,” he says, raising his eyebrows. Nicke frowns back at him, confused. “Oh, come on,” Braden says, leaning back against the bench. “Listen, it’s none of my business, but I’m pretty sure Ovi was gonna talk everybody on the team into coming back here before the summer was out.” Nicke rolls his eyes and tries not to go red. “Figured out why after my visit, obviously.”

Nicke shakes his head and strips his gloves off. It’s not like he didn’t know, but it’s different to hear it out of somebody else’s mouth. “Shit, I could have made way more money if I’d played harder to get,” he says.

Braden grins. “Kuzy might still come back,” he says, and Nicke takes a second to place which one that is again. “Just good luck that Ovi was with him that first time.”

Ah. Evgeny. Nicke tosses the gloves in the trash. “Glad to hear you think it was good luck,” Nicke says lightly. This whole thing could have been even messier, hard as that is to believe.

“Of course,” Braden says. He stands there in the middle of Nicke’s room for a second, looking—almost frustrated? Nicke did not mean to start a conversation about this. “He’s the—he’s our leader, you know? And it’s not like—it’s hard on him. We know.”

“OK,” Nicke says, moving to open the door. “Say hi to—”

“I hope we’ll see you again,” Braden says, genuinely, damn him, and Nicke tries to keep his face under control. “In DC, or—wherever.”

Nicke has no idea what to say to that. Braden doesn’t know Nicke. It’s nice, at least, to know Sasha is surrounded by people who love him. “That’s very nice of you to say,” Nicke says, opening the door. “Thanks for coming. Andre can check you out up front.”

“I bet he can,” Braden says, and Nicke freezes as Braden walks by him with a wink. “See you later, Hamlet,” Braden calls behind him, and Nicke finally dissolves into laughter as he disappears up the stairs.

  


* * *

  


_**Nicke:** stefan what’s my official job title?_

_**Stefan:** licensed body piercer, why?_

_**Andre:** nicky!!!! no!!!!!!!!!!!_

  


* * *

  


It’s dark. Nicke’s room is lit only by the brass lamp on his bedside table—listen, someone left it on the curb, what was he supposed to do? There are empty sushi containers scattered across the floor. He’s got all his clothes still on and Sasha facedown underneath him on the bed.

Nicke leans down, blanketing Sasha and mumbling into the heat of his neck. “I sent my CV in.”

He can feel Sasha laugh underneath him. Nicke deserves it, but he bites down a little on Sasha’s neck anyway.

“So sexy,” Sasha says, rolling over between Nicke’s thighs to look up at him. He looks as warm as he feels. Nicke is seized, not for the first time, with the urge to take a picture. “What did your family say?”

Nicke hasn’t told them. Nicke hasn’t taken the text thread off mute. One thing at a time. “Who gives a fuck what they think?” he says, half to himself, tangling his fingers in Sasha’s necklaces. They’re ridiculous, but they are convenient.

“Oh, fuck,” Sasha says, grinning. “That actually is sexy.” He pushes up on an elbow to kiss Nicke. He pulls back. “I should know better,” he says, and Nicke twists his hand in the chains to reel him back in again.

Nicke sinks into it, the heat of Sasha’s mouth and his hands sliding greedily up Nicke’s back. It’s been a good few weeks for Nicke’s body. It’s been very happy. That’s been nice. It may be a long time before Nicke has it like this again.

Nicke’s chest feels tight, overfull. Like something is on top of him and driving the air out of his lungs. He pulls back from Sasha.

Before he can change his mind— “I’m going to miss you,” he says in a rush. He makes himself look down at Sasha and meet his shining eyes. He makes himself not apologize. His lungs are burning and so is his throat. “I wanted to tell you that.” He had wanted to, though he had realized it about the same second he’d said it. He’d wanted to, so he’d done it.

Sasha doesn’t seem much the worse for wear.

“Can tell me that anytime,” he says, tipping his forehead to thunk into Nicke’s chest. Nicke lets the necklaces slip through his fingers so he can cup the back of Sasha’s skull. So much of him is so heavy. Nicke has to look closely to find the soft parts. “Gonna miss you, too,” Sasha says, half-muffled against Nicke’s shirt.

“What was that?” Nicke says, teasing, as if that hides the flood of feeling that rolls through him. “I didn’t catch that, sorry.”

Sasha growls and squeezes at Nicke’s back hard enough to hurt, but when he tips his head back his face is joyful. The only other people in Nicke’s life who smile like that are the kids. “Gonna miss you,” Sasha says, and he shifts under Nicke so Nicke’s in his lap properly. Nicke will allow it, for now. “Gonna miss your laundry,” Sasha says. He slides his hands up under Nicke’s shirt, stripping it over his head and throwing it toward the laundry bag as Nicke laughs. “Gonna miss your perfect tits.” Nicke opens his mouth to object, but then Sasha’s got his nipple between his teeth and Nicke forgets what he—what was he going to—huh. Hmm.

Nicke rocks against Sasha, chasing that sharp edge of pleasure. He can feel Sasha hard underneath him. Fuck. Nicke’s going to miss that _dick_ is what he’s going to miss.

“You miss me so much,” Nicke says, panting suddenly. Where did his breath go? “Could give you a souvenir.” Sasha’s mouth goes slack and wet against him for a moment as he gasps. Nicke rolls his hips and grins into Sasha’s hair. “Think about it.”

“Doing wrong stuff, you want me to _think,_ ” Sasha says, and Nicke is still laughing as Sasha dumps him on his back and gets to work on his shorts.

  


* * *

  


_To: backstrom.nicke@gmail.com_  
_From: karriere@fc.de_

_Herr Bäckström,_

_Thank you for submitting your materials. We are interested in speaking with you further about the position. Please let us know which of the below times you will be available to speak with our Assistant Coach Samuel Meier._

  


* * *

  


_hej mamma. do you know what kind of flowers these are?_

  


* * *

  


Four days until Sasha leaves.

He’d really liked the fish. Nicke knew it.

They’ve gotten much further into the garden together than Nicke had managed the first time. It helps that Nicke doesn’t have a shift to get to. Sasha had gravitated toward the greenhouses, which Nicke had skipped the first time around, fascinated by the tropical plants. Nicke had trailed after, feeling his hair frizz in the humidity. It’s all right. That’s what the new hat is for.

They’d finally stopped to rest for a bit when they’d seen the sign for the _Alpinum_.

“What does that mean?” Sasha had asked, forging ahead.

“Not sure.” Nicke had followed anyway. They’d crested a small hill and looked down at yet another tiny world. This one was rocky, more boulders than soil. And the plants—different. Purple and white and yellow, seemingly happy to dig their roots into gravel. Another pond, this one surrounded by stone on all sides.

“Mountain plants, I think,” Nicke had said. How the hell did they manage to live so far from home? He takes a picture of a vibrant purple shrub that seems to be growing directly out of a stone.

Now he’s perched on top of a boulder with a suitably flat top. Sasha is stretched out on it, sunning himself in Nicke’s lap.

Four days.

“I’m a terrible boyfriend,” Nicke says, because it’s true, and because he wants to make sure Sasha knows.

Sasha opens his eyes, blinking against the light. He squints up at Nicke and examines him for a moment. “Don’t have to be my boyfriend.”

“Oh, thank God,” Nicke blurts out, and Sasha starts laughing silently in his lap. “Listen, I’m trying—”

“So nice,” Sasha says, and it would sound like a joke except for how Sasha beams. “So nice to me.”

“Quiet,” Nicke says, grinning out over the water and fumbling to find one of Sasha’s hands. Some sort of duck with a weird lump on its beak lands in the pond. Neat.

“Don’t need that from you, don’t worry,” Sasha says, closing his eyes again and squeezing Nicke’s hand. Nicke watches the duck move across the water, leaving a clear trail in the algae that has turned the surface a light green.

“What would you like?” Nicke says. “From me.” He’s sure there are many things Sasha would like. Most of those are not up to Nicke.

Sasha hums, eyes still closed. “Tell me about your day,” he says.

“Yes.” Nicke can do that.

“Send me sexy pictures sometimes,” Sasha smiles.

“Yes.”

“Wait for me,” Sasha says. Nicke squeezes his hand.

“No.”

Sasha opens one eye and looks up at Nicke. “Good,” he says. “Don’t do that.” A corner of his mouth quirks up. “You have adventures, maybe tell me about.”

“Maybe,” Nicke says. “If you’re good.”

Sasha closes his eyes again. “I’m the best.”

“You’re the best,” Nicke says, tipping his head back to look at the sky, and he doesn’t look down at Sasha when he hears his breath catch. “Anything else?”

“You want to come see me, you tell me,” Sasha says. Nicke frowns involuntarily, and Sasha snickers at him. “Don’t have to come, just have to say.”

“Fine,” Nicke says. He looks down at Sasha. “Anybody ever tell you you’re needy?”

“Everybody,” Sasha says. “One more.”

Nicke sighs, heart full. “One more.”

“You move, send me a postcard from new place.”

Nicke raises an eyebrow at him. “I’ll give you a mailing address, even.”

Sasha huffs a laugh. “That’s good too. For birthday presents.” He shifts a little, finding a more comfortable spot on Nicke’s thigh. “But is just nice for me. To think of you wherever you are.”

Nicke rubs a thumb back and forth over the back of Sasha’s hand. “Not giving a fuck about what you do.”

Sasha grins. “Never give a fuck.”

“I can do that.”

  


* * *

  


A corner of the garden has hedges even taller than Sasha.

“Hey,” Nicke says, elbowing Sasha in the side. There are a few other people on the path in this section, so Nicke pitches his voice low and leans in close. “You want me to kiss you behind that bush?”

He kind of meant it as a joke. Then he sees the look of delight on Sasha’s face.

  


* * *

  


Fuck, hedges are prickly.

  


* * *

  


_what about flora for a girl’s name_

_jesus, nicke. catch up on the group text. we’ve already got like fifteen name ideas._

_no._

_ugh. fine_  
_flora isn’t bad though. maybe a middle name_  
_i’ll put it on the list_  
_glad to see you’re alive_

_thanks._

  


* * *

  


_Oh, that’s yellow stonecrop, I think!_  
_I’ve never seen it landscaped that way, though_

 _cool, thanks mamma_  
_do you know anything about orchids?_

  


* * *

  


_one more))))))_

_what?_

_jersey)))))) you have to take))))))))_

_no_

_yes)))))))_

_the deal is off_

_))))))))))_

_it’s been fun. goodbye forever._

_will bring it next time at yours)))))))))_

_whose number is this? do i know you?_

_you have to take))))))))) or i give to andre)))))))))_

_you’re a monster_

  


* * *

  


Nicke is mostly asleep against Sasha’s shoulder. Sasha’s got some bullshit droning on the hotel TV, some NHL preview show that Nicke’s amazed even gets aired in Europe. Perfect thing to put him to sleep.

“I want one,” Sasha says, and Nicke barely picks it out from the low noise of the TV.

“Mm?”

“I want a souvenir.”

Nicke smiles into his shoulder. “Make an appointment.”

  


* * *

  


Sasha books the last slot available on the day before he leaves.

“Cutting it close,” Nicke says.

“Figured would be smart,” Sasha says, popping three more french fries in his mouth. Beer garden season isn’t quite over yet. It’s already getting dark earlier, though. “Can’t fuck afterwards, right?”

Nicke chokes on his Kolsch and covers his face with his hand. He glances around to make sure their table is a sufficient distance from any of the kids running around. Damn Germans all speak English. “Jesus.”

“You saying you don’t have plans?” Sasha says, grinning around more fries. “I have plans.”

Sasha thinks his plans are so great.

“Have to take it,” he says joyfully, pinning Nicke against his own bedroom wall.

Nicke rolls his eyes at the jersey tossed on his laundry rack. “For now.”

“Sexy pictures,” Sasha purrs into his neck.

“Don’t fucking push it,” Nicke says, and then gasps as Sasha pulls on his hair.

  


* * *

  


“This,” Nicke says, letting his eyes drink in the scene before him, “Is the least sexy thing I have ever seen.”

Sasha hasn’t stopped grinning from underneath the hospital paper sheet. It covers him up from stomach to knees, except for the square cutout where his naked soft dick flops through. “This don’t do it for you?”

Nicke really needs to stop laughing.

It would help if Sasha stopped shimmying his hips.

“All right, enough, enough,” Nicke says, wiping his eyes. “Jesus. I need more gloves.”

Nicke trades his gloves for a pair he hasn’t cried on and grabs his tray with a marker, a hollow cannula, a 10-gauge needle, and the circular barbell. Then he climbs up on the bench with Sasha.

He wouldn’t normally do it like this. Obviously.

Nicke sits up on his knees, straddling one of Sasha’s thighs. “You don’t have to do this,” he reminds him.

“I want to,” Sasha says, and Nicke can read the tension coming off him, but tension isn’t always bad.

Nicke’s walked him through the aftercare. Nicke’s showed him the needle. Nicke’s drawn him a diagram. If Sasha wants it anyway, Nicke will give it to him.

“I can’t hold your hand, sorry,” Nicke says. He loads the needle into the hollow metal cannula. “You should close your eyes.”

He slides Sasha’s foreskin down off the head carefully and marks the exit point on the underside. He might have gone for an 8-gauge to make a stronger piercing, but he wants to make sure the foreskin can still slide back over it. Should be OK. Nicke’s probably done a hundred of these—he knows what to look for.

When he first learned how to do them, the piercer he’d been apprenticing with had taught him to do it by pushing a plastic tube into the urethra first. Like nearly everything else, Nicke has found he gets better results just using his hands. The tube’s only better if you don’t know what you’re doing.

“This is gonna be a little uncomfortable,” he says quietly, focused. He gently works the urethra open with his thumbs. Sasha tenses but doesn’t complain. Nicke always takes an immense amount of care with piercings like these, but he doesn’t normally have the same feeling of tenderness toward the vulnerable flesh under his hands.

Nicke had taken about half an hour last night to thoroughly explore the finer points of Sasha’s unaltered dick with his mouth. He still has to resist the urge to give it a little kiss goodbye.

He’s learned it’s better not to give too much warning.

He slides the cannula into Sasha’s urethra, keeping the needle retracted so it doesn’t catch him. “Good, good, good,” he says, a little mindless as he always is when he’s this focused. Sasha’s breathing hard, and Nicke can feel his thigh tense underneath him. Nicke looks at the marked exit point to make sure that—yes. The actual tissue to puncture is almost nothing; Nicke pushes the needle through the cannula with one sure movement. The metal point comes through Sasha’s skin cleanly, right on the mark.

“Almost there—” He takes the needle from the other side and pulls it all the way through, holding the cannula in place, and then slides the barbell through the cannula after it. Sasha is hissing and perfectly still. The rhythm of it is second-nature, at this point, and it’s a matter of three quick movements and about ten seconds before Nicke has the cannula withdrawn and the ends screwed on the barbell.

“All done,” he says, setting the needle and cannula down on the tray.

“Fuck!” Sasha explodes, slamming a fist down on the bench. Nicke tries not to laugh. “Fucking shit, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he says, but he’s smiling a little. Nicke knows that pain high. “Jesus Christ, Nicky, tell me it looks good.”

Nicke takes a look. He’s biased, probably, but he can still give his professional opinion.

“Fucking perfect,” he says.

Sasha grins and sits up on his elbows. “Let me see before you wrap it up,” he says. “Oh, shit. Nice work, Nicky.” He collapses back on the bench. “Fuck, I am so cool. Ow.”

Nicke grins. “I’ll get the gauze.”

It’s bleeding a little, which is normal. Nothing to worry about as long as Sasha keeps it clean. Foreskin seems like it’ll be fine. And it—damn. It does look good. Sasha always seems so whole; Nicke had worried, a little, about doing something to throw him off-balance. He shouldn’t have. It’s not unbalanced, not showy—then again, maybe showy just looks right on Sasha. It suits him.

Nicke wraps him up carefully.

“Mummy dick,” Sasha says, giggling and loopy.

“You can take it off later,” Nicke says. “Just good to have on there for the first few hours. I can take a look tonight.” He’s already loaded up a little bag for Sasha full of aftercare instructions, saline rinses, and oils to prevent scarring. He’ll be damned if somebody else has to clean up his work.

Sasha crumples up the paper sheet, tucks himself gently back into his underwear, and pulls up his sweatpants before hopping off the bench. “I like it,” he says, shifting his weight to test the feel. “Weird, but I like it.”

“You should keep me updated on your healing progress,” Nicke says, tongue-in-cheek as he tosses his gloves in the trash and goes to wash his hands.

“Yeah?” Sasha says behind him, teasing. “You want my dick pics?”

Nicke dries his hands off. “You know. Professionally.” He turns around, leaning back against the counter, and Sasha is _right_ there—

Nicke can’t help but make a startled noise against Sasha’s mouth. Sasha pins his hips back against the counter with firm hands and presses his height advantage, maneuvering to tip Nicke’s head back just a little. Nicke nips at Sasha’s lips, but otherwise freezes. He’d normally get rough with him, find a way to surprise him back, but—

“Careful,” he says, pulling away.

“I know, I know,” Sasha says, and he slides to his knees.

Nicke’s head snaps back involuntarily, half-knocking against the cabinets above the sink. “Shit, you’d fucking better,” he says, trying to stay quiet.

He holds tight to the counter behind him as Sasha pulls his shorts down. Nicke doesn’t get off on his job. This room isn’t a particularly sexy place to him, though he knows he’s got some colleagues who feel differently. Nicke loves this job, this work, but he doesn’t get off on it.

He does get off on Sasha.

And Sasha, who wanted Nicke to be the first one to put a hole in him, who’s taking Nicke’s work across the ocean, who’s going to see a little piece of Nicke every time he takes a piss or fucks or touches himself, on his knees?

Well. Nicke’s only a man.

“You know, I don’t do this to you at work,” Nicke says, looking down at Sasha and hissing as Sasha jerks him to hardness.

“That’s a nice picture,” Sasha says. Then he sucks the head of Nicke’s dick into his mouth, shameless and wet.

Nicke’s eyes squeeze shut on instinct, but he forces them back open. He tries to pay attention to all of it: every surprising angle of Sasha’s face, the press of his broad hands, the hot slide of his tongue. The sweet spread of his eyelashes and the wicked stretch of Nicke’s dick against his cheek. Sasha’s body. Nicke has gotten to know it just well enough to be able to miss it the way it deserves.

Sasha pulls off but keeps his hand moving, just on the right side of too rough, too tight. He looks up at Nicke with a truly evil expression. Nicke pets at his hair.

“I want this,” Sasha says, voice low. “First time.” He puts his mouth back to work as Nicke stifles a sound, pressing his toes into the floor, then he pulls off again. His eyes are shining. So are his lips. “Want to tell Zhenya, get the fuck out, then get on my knees for you. Get your attention.”

Nicke combs through Sasha’s hair and tries to keep his feet. Tries to keep from fucking Sasha’s mouth the way they both want it. “Bet you say that to all the boys,” he says.

Sasha grins. “I don’t.”

Hell. Nicke tugs on his hair. “Would have said yes,” he says as quietly as he can, then gasps as Sasha swallows him down again. He doesn’t know if that’s true. Nicke barely feels like a person at all when Sasha has him like this, much less whoever he was that first day. But whatever he is now says yes. “This is— _fuck_ —this is better.”

God, he’d thought he’d wanted Sasha then. Nothing. A stone skipped across a lake.

“I want you,” Nicke says, and Sasha makes a desperate sound low in his throat, and Nicke lets the wave take him. Has he never said? “I want you so much,” he chokes out, and Sasha hauls one of Nicke’s legs over his shoulder, and Nicke flails out an arm that sends a tray of needles clattering loudly into the sink, and it doesn’t matter at all.

  


* * *

  


When it’s done, and Nicke has wiped his own come carefully from the corners of Sasha’s mouth, Sasha stays on his knees for a long minute with his head pressed into Nicke’s thigh.

“OK?” Nicke says. He’s not entirely OK, bare-assed in his place of business.

“Yeah,” Sasha says, rough. “Just trying to think not-sexy things, make dick calm down.”

“Oh, fuck,” Nicke says, not bothering trying to stifle his laugh. “Seriously? After everything?”

Sasha glares up at him. “Yeah, you put a hole in my dick and then you come in my mouth, very confusing time for him—shut the fuck up, see if I suck your dick again.”

  


* * *

  


It’s past close when they leave. Andre is still sitting at reception, arms crossed.

“I could have locked up,” Nicke says. He does have keys.

“Don’t talk to me,” Andre says, glowering extravagantly. Nicke grins.

“Andre! Aren’t you going to miss me?” Sasha booms, and Andre’s expression turns sunny.

“ _So_ much. Nicky’s going to forget how to have fun again when you leave,” Andre says, and Nicke rolls his eyes.

“Make sure he doesn’t,” Sasha says, reaching across the desk to ruffle Andre’s hair with a single massive hand.

“I’ve been _trying,_ ” Andre says, flushing happily.

“That reminds me,” Nicke says, flipping his keys in his hands. It’s a lie, he just thought of it now, but still. “You should tell me more about your Frisbee team sometime, maybe if I’m only working one job I’ll be able to make your practices.”

They leave in the wake of Andre’s stunned silence.

Sasha slides an arm around Nicke’s waist. “You gonna hate Frisbee.”

“That’s half the fun,” Nicke says, leaning into Sasha’s laugh. “Plus, he didn’t notice that you didn’t pay.”

  


* * *

  


Sasha doesn’t have that many bags, at the end of the day. He didn’t bring that much with him; he’s not taking that much back. It’s easy for him to haul them up the narrow stairs to Nicke’s flat, to Nicke’s room, to spend the last night.

  


* * *

  


Sasha’s alarm goes off at 0530, which is about ten minutes before the car is coming to take him to the airport. Nicke groans and keeps his eyes squeezed tightly closed as Sasha turns the beeping off.

Sasha rolls back over, his weight tilting the gravity of the bed. He runs a hand down Nicke’s back. It leaves a stripe of warmth on Nicke’s skin. And then Sasha gets up.

Nicke turns his face into the pillow and listens to him move around the room for a minute. Sasha brushes his teeth. He washes his face. He puts on the clothes he’d laid out the night before and shoves his last toiletries in his carry-on bag. Nicke pays attention to the rhythm of his steps and the way Nicke’s floor creaks underneath him.

Nicke takes a breath and rolls over, squinting into the half-light.

Sasha is grabbing his wallet and phone off Nicke’s windowsill. “Sorry,” he says, smiling at Nicke’s sleep-face. He’s not much better, still blinking a little slowly. Nicke doesn’t have time to make him coffee.

“s’OK,” Nicke says, voice gravelly. As if he would have preferred Sasha slip out without waking him. “Come here.”

Sasha doesn’t get all the way back in bed. Probably the right decision. But he comes to Nicke anyway, perching a knee on the bed and bending over to put his great shaggy head in Nicke’s hands.

Nicke pulls him in clumsily, getting his arms around the whole of him. With him in the room it’s impossible to imagine he’ll ever be gone.

“Tell me when you land,” Nicke says through a mouthful of Sasha’s hair.

Sasha pulls back enough to catch Nicke’s mouth carefully. Nicke’s lips are still dry and a little chapped from sleep; he gives it his best anyway. Sasha tastes like Nicke’s toothpaste.

Sasha presses their foreheads together with a tiny smile. “Handsome stranger,” he says, and Nicke grins despite himself. “Say I can see you again.”

Nicke would agree to anything right now to keep his view full of golden skin and silver hair and laughing eyes. “Ask me a few more times,” Nicke says. “For my pride.”

Sasha nods. “OK. I will.” He gives Nicke one last minty kiss before standing back up.

“Oh, fuck, wait,” Nicke says, remembering. He sits up in bed. “Let me see your dick before you go.”

Sasha visibly bites down on his lip to keep himself from a full laugh. The resulting wheeze is still pretty damn loud.

Nicke raises his eyebrows. “You gonna show me or just wake up my flatmates?”

Sasha unzips his jeans showily, winking. “One last look for the road, if you need it so bad.”

Everything looks OK. No weird swelling. Nicke’s not sure what exactly he would have done if something had been wrong, but it’s still nice to go out with confidence. It’s a nice piece of work.

“You have gauze in your bag?” Nicke says, lying back against the pillow. “You can put that away now.”

“You’re welcome,” Sasha says, tucking his dick back in his pants. “Yes, have all your presents.”

“Might want to wrap it up a little before the flight,” Nicke says. “But wait until after you go through security. Mummy dick probably looks weird on the x-ray machine.”

“You just jealous of airport people,” Sasha say, and his phone starts buzzing before Nicke can protest. “Ah, fuck. Car’s here.”

Nicke sits up again. “Want me to walk you out?”

Sasha smiles, throwing one of his bags over his shoulder. The smile looks like it’s more of an effort. “Want you to stay there. Perfect memory.”

Nicke’s heart is in his throat. “Take a picture.”

Sasha raises his eyebrows, and then when Nicke nods lifts his phone.

“Wait—” Nicke reaches to grab his phone off his bedside table, making the orchid sway just a little. Nicke thumbs the camera open and then frames the picture, looking at Sasha who’s looking at his phone that’s pointed at Nicke. “OK.” He takes the photo.

“Perfect,” Sasha says, and then his phone starts buzzing again. “Fuck.”

“Sasha,” Nicke says. It’s all he’s got. “Fuck.”

“Miss you.”

“When you land—”

“I’ll tell you.”

Nicke swallows, hands fisted in his sheets. “Well,” he says. “Then go.” Sasha laughs and shakes his head. “Don’t miss your flight and make me wait.”

Sasha crosses the room in two strides and kisses Nicke one more time. Nicke holds fast to the sheets so he doesn’t do anything stupid.

“Don’t change,” Sasha breathes into Nicke’s cheek.

Nicke presses closer to feel the rasp of Sasha’s beard. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  


* * *

  


Nicke listens with his eyes closed to the sound of a trunk slamming outside. The familiar muffled rhythms of Sasha exchanging small talk with a driver. The sound of the car pulling away.

Then: nothing.

Nicke rolls on his side, gathers his comforter in his arms, and holds tightly to it. He focuses on the nothing until he falls back asleep.

  


* * *

  


He wakes up to his phone buzzing.

Nicke squints at his phone. It’s been than two hours.

_still in car. Maybe better to take train ? next time_

_airport finally)))) this one is good, have nice sweets in 1st class lounge_

_boarding!! wake up nicky u have to tell me that i fly safe_

Nicke wipes the blur from his eyes but doesn’t bother getting his grin under control.

_fly safe xxxxxxxx_

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Sasha is still aching from yesterday’s game, and the Caps have another game in two days, and tomorrow is a holiday, so, yeah, his media availability after practice probably isn’t his friendliest.

He’s a lot better than he used to be at letting his eyes go a little unfocused and giving the same shapeless answers no matter what questions he’s asked. He accepts that the deflected attention is worth more than his pride. Doesn’t mean he has to fucking like it.

Maybe he should pretend to like it. Give him five more years. Maybe he’ll learn.

He bulldozes his way through a question on TJ’s injury and seizes the precious pause before anybody can think of something else to ask of him. “We done?” he says to none of them in particular. “Merry Christmas.”

He’s the last one out—no. That’s not right. He’s the last player out. The building staff, the equipment team, some of the coaches—they’ll all be here later than he is. It’s their cars he weaves through in the dark parking lot. The streetlights blink on around him.

He plugs his phone into the dash and curses when he looks at the time. All the stores will be closing. Fuck. He can’t wait to show up to Zhenya’s stupid thing tomorrow with no gift. That’s what Zhenya gets for trying to assimilate. Sasha will make it up to him at New Year’s. That’s a real holiday. Which he has done nothing to plan. That’s a problem for next week Sasha to solve, though, somewhere in between a home game and two roadies.

He does some quick math in his head. The liquor store is closing in five minutes, and it’s fifteen minutes away, but if he speeds—

Sasha’s phone buzzes in his hand.

_does now work?_

Ah! Different math. Better math.

_10 min?? )))_

_sure_

Sasha’s a very talented driver.

He can probably get one of those phone ordering services to bring him something. He’s a very good tipper.

Sasha kicks his shoes off in the entryway of his house, grabs a beer from his fridge—not on his diet plan, but fuck it, it’s Christmas—and flops down on his favorite couch.

_ok)))))_

The Facetime call comes through about twenty seconds later.

Nicky’s poorly lit, but it’s still his face filling up the screen. Still his wonky pupils, wide in the low light. Sasha’s about to start making fun of him for sitting in his hotel in the dark, except—

“You outside?” Sasha says, squinting at his phone. “What time is it there?” It’s already into evening for Sasha. He hadn’t thought about it. He doesn’t think the time difference for Sweden is any different than Germany.

“Merry Christmas to you too,” Nicky says. He’s got a little smile on his face, like Sasha’s being ridiculous for asking the question. Like his touch of smugness doesn’t prove that he knows damn well he’s going to get a reaction.

Sasha doesn’t mind giving Nicky a reaction. “You full-time vampire now? Sweden that bad?” Nicky rolls his eyes. Sasha grins and pops open his beer with his free hand. “You bring present?”

Nicky nods. He’s got a hat crammed over his ears, the ends of his hair curling out. Summer Nicky had been enough to turn Sasha’s world sidewise. Even more versions of him is just unfair. “Not like it was so big,” he says, eyebrows practically up to his hat.

“Why, you need another bike? Birthday bike not enough?” Sasha says. “Nice scarf, by the way.” It’s barely visible, but Sasha can still see it under Nicky’s coat, red and white stripes of the Cologne hockey team.

Nicky snorts. “Yeah, got it for free from some rich idiot.” His cheeks are pink.

“I miss you,” Sasha sighs.

“I bet,” Nicky says, and then he flips the camera around.

It takes a minute for Sasha to make it out in the dark, but there are enough floodlights still on the empty outdoor rink—

“Nicky!” he says, sitting upright on the couch. His tongue sticks in his mouth. Nicky skating, carving big looping circles in the ice, face chapped by the wind, Sasha chasing after him in the dark—

“Fell on my ass so many times,” Nicky says, and Sasha bursts out laughing. “A toddler laughed at me. I deserved it.”

Sasha takes a drink. “How’s it feel?” he asks, keeping his carefulness out of his voice.

Nicky sighs. “Awesome,” he says, and when he flips the camera back around he’s smiling, one of his helpless toothy ones that he hates.

“How long you out there?” Sasha asks. The smile doesn’t disappear, but it does change.

“After presents and dinner,” Nicky says. “Came back to the hotel. Rink’s close, it’s in the middle of town.” He shrugs. “Couple hours, I guess.”

“So fancy, staying in hotel,” Sasha says. So smart. Sasha knows the value of a lockable door when other things are out of your control. “New job, new money, so fancy.”

“Used the money for your Christmas present, actually,” Nicky says, and snorts as Sasha makes an outraged face. “Not that fancy. Not even one pool.”

“Still need to get you in a hot tub,” Sasha says, half to himself. He doesn’t intend to forget. “Anyway, liar, already have present here.” The envelope is stashed in the drawer of his bedside table. “Dinner stupid?”

Nicky makes a dismissive noise, and Sasha laughs. “Maja is lovely,” he says. “She liked the baby books.” He grins. “Kris hated them.”

“Congratulations,” Sasha says. “Gonna have a little radical baby. What else for presents?

“FC Köln for everybody,” Nicky says, and Sasha laughs. “The baby, too. Can’t let it turn into a hockey fan.”

“Oh, never.” Sasha has a stash of Caps jerseys set aside in all children’s sizes. If the time comes, he’ll be ready.

Nicky gives him a skeptical look, which means he probably knows, but then moves on.“My dad asked if I would have to take my piercings out for work,” he says. Sasha raises his eyebrows and takes another drink “Very hopefully. So now I have to get another one when I get back.”

“At least you get to disappoint him while you there,” Sasha says, light, and Nicky laughs, another real one. Sasha wishes he could see him properly, head thrown back and laughing in the center of a dark city.

“Thank God for that,” Nicky says. “He got me a gift certificate for a financial advisor. My mother got me a plant book, at least. What do you think my next piercing should be? Running out of room on this one.” He gestures at his right ear. He’d added something else to his cartilage a few weeks ago, before starting the new job. Sasha doesn’t remember what it’s called.

Sasha hums. “You don’t want to match?” he says slyly.

Nicky snorts. “Disaster waiting to happen,” he says. “Yours just healed, you wanna get it caught on something?”

Sasha winces and curls in on himself on the couch. “OK, Nicky, Jesus, no phone sex, got it,” he says.

Nicky flips the camera around again, and it focuses on—what the fuck is that? “You want me to get my dick out with the Gävle goat watching?” Nicky says, and yup, that’s definitely a giant straw goat looming over a nearby building. Christmas is fucking creepy. “That’s probably extra illegal.”

“Tell stupid goat to keep his eyes to himself,” Sasha says, and smiles when the camera shows Nicky’s face again. “I’ll fight big goat, don’t care.”

Nicky hums. “Wish somebody had burned it down already. Embarrassing to have it watch me eat shit on the ice all night.”

OK, burning the goat is a point in Christmas’s favor. “You want me to come over?” Sasha asks, like he always does. “Light goat on fire, destroy hotel room?” It helps, to pretend Nicky’s just across town. And it’s not like Sasha doesn’t mean it.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Nicky says, like he always does.

“Play so hard to get,” Sasha says.

Nicky squints at him through the phone. “Clingy.” His breath mists in front of his face. Sasha really wants to get him in a hot tub. “OK. I’m going to open it.”

Sasha sits up straight and takes a sip of his beer. The phone jostles and settles face-up on Nicky’s lap. It’s not the best angle, but Sasha can at least see part of Nicky’s chin and his gloved hands opening up the envelope.

Sasha wishes he could see more of his face.

It’s not plane tickets. Sasha had thought about it, but Nicky had said he would say, if he wanted that. And he hasn’t said, yet. And there are other things Sasha can give him.

“Sasha,” Nicky says quietly. Sasha holds his breath as the phone comes back up so they’re face-to-face.

“It should work for anywhere in the EU,” Sasha says. He’d spent a significant amount of time on the phone with Interrail. “Any train, anytime.” They don’t normally make the passes in for a full year. Sasha is very persuasive.

Nicky’s face is very still. “That’s a lot of places,” he says after a moment.

Sasha shrugs. “Well, probably have been to half already.”

A corner of Nicky’s mouth quirks up. “That’s true.” He taps the railpass against his chin, considering. Sasha tries not to grin. Nicky likes it. Sasha loves to be right. He’s going to have so many postcards for his fridge.

“Merry Christmas, Nicky,” he says. “You gonna go inside now and warm up?”

“Shut up, I’m thinking,” Nicky says. He looks up at the sky. Sasha doesn’t know enough about Gävle to guess at how many stars he can see. “I’ve never been to Switzerland.”

Sasha does let himself grin, now. “Should go to Switzerland. Nice mountains, good chocolate.” He pauses. “Knives. Very good place for you.”

Nicky’s eyes crinkle. “Have you been to Switzerland?”

“No,” Sasha says. He puts his beer down on the floor.

“Doing anything for New Year’s?” Nicky says, and Sasha lets himself fall back on the couch with an arm thrown out in victory. He kicks his feet a little. Nicky’s laughing at him. Sasha loves Christmas.

“No plans,” he says, which is even true, technically. They’ve got a whole four days between games. He can throw a party any time he wants.

“Interesting,” Nicky says. Sasha reaches out and flicks at his phone camera affectionately. “Well, time for bed,” Nicky says, all fake business.

“Good,” Sasha says. It is good. He has flights to look up. “Say hi to Kris for me.”

“You know I won’t,” Nicky says, camera shaking as he stands up from whatever bench he was sitting on. He must be half-frozen. There must be hot tubs in Switzerland.

“I know,” Sasha says. “Love to be dirty secret.”

“I know you do,” Nicky says, quiet, close. “I know you know.” The streetlights wash over his face as he starts his walk back to his hotel. “See you soon."

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy.
> 
> For the record, I named the roommate Lars before realizing he could be misinterpreted as Lars Eller, but I was too fond of it to change his name. I cast no aspersions on Lars Eller as a roommate.
> 
> Thank you first and foremost to [kingsoftheimpossible](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoftheimpossible), to whom I said "lol i have a funny idea for a fic" sometime in January before I had published a single thing in this fandom, and who forgave me for what it turned into and how long it dragged out. Thank you to [angularmomentum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angularmomentum/pseuds/angularmomentum), who provided incredible feedback and editing along the way. This story would not exist without them. In fairness, AM and I probably wouldn't know each other with the story, so thank you to the story for that.
> 
> Thank you to my friend who got married in Köln in 2016, and to the botanical gardens for being so lovely. Thank you to the New Jersey piercer who gave me my industrial six years ago. Thank you to Liverpool FC and the girl I loved who introduced me to them. Thank you to my therapist for helping me deal with Liverpool FC (and a variety of other things). Thank you to the color black.
> 
> I'll be glad I wrote this no matter what, but I won't pretend comments wouldn't be appreciated.


End file.
